The sun was already leaning west when I found the path. It wasn't marked on any map — just a narrow trail that curved away from the main road and slipped between two low stone walls. On either side, tall grass swayed lazily, hiding the faint scent of something sweet and overripe. The air was golden and heavy, filled with the hum of bees and the sigh of wind.
A few steps in, the trees began. They stood in irregular rows, bent and knotted with age, their bark darkened by moss and years of rain. Fruit hung from the branches — not many, but enough to catch the light. Some had fallen already, lying half-buried in the grass, split open to reveal soft flesh and the slow movement of ants. The air smelled of fermenting sweetness — rich, almost intoxicating — mixed with the dry dust of late summer.
I walked slowly, my feet brushing against the fallen leaves. Each step made a soft, papery sound, like pages turning. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker tapped at a tree. Beyond that, silence — the kind that feels layered, like it's listening to itself. The sunlight came through the branches in scattered fragments — slanting beams that lit the dust in the air, turning each mote into something briefly sacred. I could hear the low murmur of bees, thick with contentment, moving lazily from flower to flower. Every sound seemed slower here, as if time had grown drowsy under the heat.
I came upon an old bench, half-sunken into the earth. Its paint had peeled away long ago, leaving only the faint outline of green. Someone had carved initials into the wood, now almost erased. I sat for a while, feeling the sun on my shoulders, watching a small brown bird peck at a fallen fruit.
There was a gentleness to this decay — not neglect, but surrender. The orchard wasn't abandoned so much as it had been given back to the world. The trees still bore fruit, the bees still came, the soil still remembered the rhythm of tending hands. Only the footsteps had vanished.
A faint breeze carried the smell of ripening guavas. I followed it down the path, past a cluster of trees whose branches intertwined like fingers. Their roots pushed through the earth in thick, gnarled patterns, each holding on to the soil like memory.
The ground dipped slightly, leading to a small clearing. Here, the sunlight pooled brighter — liquid gold over grass and fallen leaves. In the center stood a single tree larger than the rest, its trunk broad and split near the base. Someone had placed a small clay pot there, now filled with rainwater and a few petals. A thin vine climbed its side, flowering shyly with tiny white blossoms.
I stood beneath that tree, looking up through the lattice of branches. The light filtered through them in slow, shifting waves — soft, fragmented, endless. It felt like standing inside time itself, in that space between what was and what remains.
A ripe fruit dropped nearby with a soft thud. The sound startled a flock of birds that rose in a whirl of wings, their flight scattering the sunlight into chaos before settling back into stillness.
I knelt and picked up the fallen fruit. Its skin was bruised, its scent deep and earthy. I wiped it on my sleeve and took a bite — the taste sharp, sweet, familiar in a way I couldn't quite name. The juice ran down my wrist, warm from the sun. For a moment, I imagined the people who had once tended this place — their laughter, their voices calling across the rows, their hands stained with the same sweetness.
A soft rustle made me turn. An old man was walking down the path from the far end, his steps slow, a walking stick tapping lightly against the ground. His clothes were simple, his face weathered but kind. When he saw me, he smiled faintly. "Not many come here anymore," he said, his voice gentle. I asked if it had once been his orchard. He nodded. "My father's, and his before him. We planted these trees when I was a boy. Now the land belongs to the wind."
He laughed softly at that — not bitterly, but with acceptance. I asked if he missed it. He thought for a long moment before answering. "You don't miss what becomes a part of you," he said. "It's still here — in the soil, in the fruit, in me." He looked around as if greeting old friends. "They keep giving," he said, touching one of the branches gently. "Even when no one's watching." We stood there together for a while, listening to the quiet hum of life. Then he nodded once more and continued down the path, his figure slowly blending into the light until he became just another shadow among the trees.
When I looked back at the clearing, the wind had picked up slightly. The leaves rustled like whispered farewells. A few petals fell into the clay pot, joining the reflection of the sky floating on the water's surface.
As I walked out of the orchard, the air shifted — the smell of fruit faded, replaced by the dry scent of the road ahead. Behind me, the trees swayed gently, each movement a slow breath.
By the time I reached the main path again, the sun had begun to sink lower, staining the horizon with amber. The hum of the bees grew distant, replaced by the faint sound of crickets waking in the grass. I paused once to look back. The orchard lay quiet, bathed in gold, half in shadow, half in light — a place still alive in its own forgetting.