It was a misty morning. The kind where the clouds descended to the earth, to wander through the folk, clinging to the landscape under the guise of fog. It chilled the air in the most delicious way. The wind that blew down from the mountains, through their little village, rattled the old glass in her kitchen window and whistled through the holes in the frame.
The mug clutched in her hands warmed her skin as she gazed out into the hills beyond her walls. Up the slops rose a smattering of apple trees, their branches twisting upward towards the darkened sky. The biggest, the one that her husband used to sit beneath after a long day’s work, was her favorite, and one she had always been able to see from her kitchen window.
As she gazed at the roiling fog, staring towards the tree, she began to imagine she could see it, emerging through the mist and fog. Even though she knew that was absurd, she could barely see the fence and gate at the end of her front garden the fog was so thick.
She sighed, wistfully, and turned away from the window. As she did, the fog thinned and swirled away. Her favorite apple tree emerged, with what looked to be a slumped figure resting against the trunk.
Inktober 2026, Prompt #1: APPLE🧡🖤👻🎃
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