Ben looked down at his boots.
He did not raise his voice, nor did he look angry.
He simply stood there, patient and still.
“I do not mind the time,” he said.
“She is my friend, Clara,” he said.
“We were both your friends,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
He did not answer.
He pushed the bicycle forward, the tires crunching softly in the loose stones.
“I should get moving,” he said. “The light is going.”
I stood on the driveway and watched him turn onto the main road.
The dry maple leaves scraped against the gravel as his tires passed over them.
The air on the garden porch was cool and smelled of damp earth and fallen leaves.
Rosie sat on the top step, her knees pulled up to her chest, her yellow cardigan buttoned unevenly.
She was watching the twilight settle over the lawn.
“Ben has a secret,” she said when I sat down beside her.
Her voice was slow, each word deliberate and round.
“Ben is busy with the orchard,” I said.
