The letter arrived in the strangest way.
Almond was halfway through repairing the spine of a crumbling old poetry book when a hollow thud interrupted the soft hush of the bindery. A book had fallen from one of the top shelves on its own—no breeze, no footsteps. Just a quiet drop.
She frowned, wiped her hands clean of glue and dust, and walked over to where it had landed. The book’s cover was forest green, worn with time and trimmed with golden etching that shimmered faintly, like it didn’t quite belong in the present.
It was already open.
Tucked inside was a folded piece of paper. Heavy parchment. Cream-colored, with the faintest smell of apricots.
She unfolded it carefully.
To the one who dreams of me,55Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7g205mHASt
You always find the orchard, whether you're looking or not.55Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGagUTJUcCA
This time, come when the sky turns gold.55Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGPB74eb212
I’ll be there. You’ll know me.—G.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reread the words. Once. Twice. A third time, slower.
She didn’t know anyone who would write something like that. Not to her.
But one part of her—the quiet, whisper-listening part—didn't question it at all.
She looked out the window. The day had already begun its descent into evening. The light was softening, stretching its arms lazily across rooftops and chimney stacks.
She hesitated… for maybe ten seconds.
Then she grabbed her coat.
The orchard sat at the edge of town like a secret. No signs led to it, and most people didn’t even remember it was there. Almond had passed it before, always meaning to step in and look around, but never quite making it.
It had no name, no gate, and no path—just rows and rows of apricot trees, wild and half-forgotten, their leaves whispering softly in the wind.
The sky above was doing exactly what the letter had said: turning gold, as if someone had spilled sunlight over the edges of the clouds.
She stepped into the orchard. The grass was cool and soft underfoot, the air rich with the scent of ripe fruit and something more delicate—almost like the fragrance in her dreams.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the sound of breeze and birds.
And then—
She saw him.
Leaning casually against the trunk of the nearest tree, hands in his pockets, hair tousled, and eyes fixed on her with a look so familiar her knees almost gave out.
The boy from her dreams.
Here.
Real.
Now.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, slow and quiet, like he’d been waiting forever.
“You came,” he said at last.
His voice was exactly how it had always sounded—low, warm, and wrapped in something unspoken.
Almond blinked. “You’re real.”
“And you’re here.” He stepped closer. “That makes two of us.”
She could barely breathe. “You… wrote the letter?”
He nodded. “Tucked it in a book I knew you’d find.”
She looked up at him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “How?”
He grinned. “Because I know how your mind works, Almond. I’ve known it for a long, long time.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He reached out, brushing a stray curl from her face with aching tenderness. “Glory.”
A silence stretched between them. But it wasn’t empty.
It was full.
Of memory. Of dreams. Of the things neither of them had said—but somehow, both had always known.
“We’ve met before,” Almond whispered.
“So many times,” Glory murmured. “But this is the first time we’ve met awake.”
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