Where Apples Grow

Years passed.

And with each passing season, the pain became quieter—like a scar kissed by the wind. It never vanished, but it no longer bled.

I found myself far from the city, in a province that smelled of soil and sky. My late grandfather, a man I barely knew but now silently thanked every day, left me a hundred hectares of farmland. Wild and untouched, it waited for someone who needed a reason to begin again.

I became that someone.

I started with apples.

Rows and rows of trees now fill the hills. I learned to prune them, feed them, coax sweetness from the earth. Their blossoms were the first thing to make me smile again. And when harvest came, I sold to factories and small markets, enough to live quietly.

But there was one buyer who kept coming back.

Leon.

He owned a food company, specializing in artisan wine and cider. Always polite, always curious about the land. He didn’t just buy—he stayed. Asked about the soil, the harvest, the weather. Asked about me, though I didn’t answer much at first.

He was tall, handsome, with sun-kissed skin and sleeves always rolled up. He looked like someone who worked with his hands, who built things with patience. A man who listened.

He’d come by with a crate of his latest cider batch, smile wide, boots dusted in earth, and say things like,

“Let me trade this for a walk through your orchard.”

And somehow, I always said yes.

There were moments, quiet and slow, where I’d catch him watching me—not with hunger, not with pity—but with something softer. Respect. Admiration, maybe. Something I hadn’t felt in years.

Sometimes, we’d sit under the oldest apple tree on the hill, sipping his wine as the sun dipped low.

He never asked about my past.

But once, I caught him glancing at the ring mark on my finger—faded now, almost gone—and he looked away without a word.

That silence was the kindest thing anyone ever gave me.

And I realized—maybe not all love needed to hurt.

Some could grow like apples, slow and steady.

And maybe, just maybe…

This was the season I could bloom again.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

The sun had barely set when my phone buzzed. A message from Leon.

“Dinner? I’ll cook. Don’t worry, I’ve improved.”

I chuckled. Last time he tried to make pasta, he nearly burned down the guest kitchen in the old warehouse he turned into his vineyard storage.

But I typed back, “Alright. I’ll bring apples.”

When I arrived, the place smelled like garlic, thyme, and something roasted. Soft jazz played from a speaker near the windows. He greeted me in a dark button-up and an apron, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy. His usual.

But tonight, he looked different. Less like the buyer who drove up in a truck, more like the man behind something larger. A quiet power he never flaunted.

Dinner was simple, warm. Chicken, roasted potatoes, apple-glazed vegetables. Wine he made from last fall’s batch. I sat across from him, the candlelight catching in his eyes, and I wondered if this was what peace looked like.

He poured me a glass, his fingers brushing mine.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

I nodded. “I needed a break from watching apples grow.”

He laughed. “They grow beautifully under your care.”

We ate, and talked—about the soil, the spring rain, the orchard dog that wouldn’t stop chasing wild chickens. I found myself laughing more than I expected.

Then, between a sip of wine and silence, he said, “Sean…”

I looked up.

“I’ve never asked, but... will you let me in? Just a little more?”

I paused, heart tightening.

“I don’t want to know everything,” he added gently. “Just what you’re ready to give.”

I studied him. His honesty. His quiet patience. He was a man who could easily command rooms, build empires—but here, he waited for my walls to come down on their own.

I nodded slowly. “I used to be someone’s husband,” I whispered. “And it ended with silence, betrayal… and me disappearing.”

Leon didn’t speak. He didn’t ask who, or why, or how.

He just said, “Thank you… for telling me.”

I looked at him. “You’re not just a cider maker, are you?”

He smiled. That mysterious, knowing smile. “Leon Frost. Frost Group.”

I blinked. I’d heard of them. Everyone had. Real estate, international trade, renewable energy—the Frost name was everywhere.

And yet, here he was. In a vineyard kitchen, cooking for me.

“I figured it out,” I admitted softly. “But I didn’t want to ask.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said. “Because when I’m here, I’m not the heir. I’m just… me.”

He reached across the table, hand outstretched—not demanding, just waiting.

And this time, I didn’t flinch.

I placed my hand in his.