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It was the year’s answer to death. Loud, round, and so ripe it was almost obscene.
Elias nodded.
And for most of his life, that’s what he saw. He ran a small orchard in the Hudson Valley, and every September he’d watch the apples grow heavy, the light grow thin, and a quiet sadness settle over the hills like a widow’s shawl.
Elias Thorne had spent seventy years believing that autumn was a lie.
