**The Apples of Fate: A Homecoming**
Margaret Wilson stood in her garden in Hazelbrook, gazing at the apple trees weighed down by their heavy fruit. This year’s harvest was unlike any she’d seen before—plump red and golden apples, their cheeks rosy, tumbling to the ground and filling the air with a sweet, heady scent. She hadn’t bothered picking them; there was hardly anyone left to eat them.
The village was nearly empty. The young had gone off to the cities, chasing better opportunities, and the elderly could be counted on one hand. In winter, only four or five houses in Hazelbrook still had lights in their windows.
*“Lost in thought, Margaret?”* A voice came from behind. *“Still thinking of leaving?”*
It was Eleanor, her neighbour, pushing a wheelbarrow towards the trees.
*“Oh, it’s you, Ellie,”* Margaret sighed. *“Take as many as you like—at least they’ll feed your goats. I won’t need them now. Changed my mind? I wish I could, but my son’s already arranged the sale. Even took a deposit.”*
*“Hate to see you go,”* Eleanor said, shaking her head. *“Who knows who’ll move in? Probably just weekenders—no one’ll stay year-round.”*
She fell silent and began gathering apples. Margaret watched her for a moment before murmuring,
*“Never seen a harvest like this. Just as I’m set to leave, the land seems to cling to me. Heaven knows how hard this decision’s been. And still, I don’t know why I’m doing it.”*
*“Makes life easier for your son,”* Eleanor replied. *“No more long drives—shops, doctors, everything nearby. No more chopping wood or tending the garden.”*
*“True,”* Margaret agreed, though her voice trembled. *“But my heart stays here. My head knows it’s right, but my soul won’t let go. Ellie, I’m leaving you Whiskers and old Rex. Look after them till I sort things out. Might take Whiskers with me, but Rex is too old for a flat. What a bother…”*
*“Don’t fret, Margaret,”* Eleanor nodded. *“I’ll fetch Rex tomorrow. Whiskers knows his way around. Just don’t miss your bus. Hope we’ll meet again—maybe you’ll come back. And you’d best visit!”*
*“Hmm… Yes,”* Margaret muttered. *“Packed my bag—my son’s coming for the rest this weekend.”*
She wandered through the house one last time, lingering by the old stove in the kitchen. Tears blurred her vision, but time was short. Stepping outside, she sat on a weathered tree stump by the road.
Soon, the little local bus rattled into view, creaking and clanking. Margaret exchanged a word with the driver and took a seat by the window. She was the only passenger—Hazelbrook was the end of the line.
The road was as rough as ever, potholes filled with rainwater from the last storm. The bus crawled along until, with a dull crunch, it jolted to a stop. The driver muttered under his breath and climbed out.
*“What’s happened?”* Margaret called, leaning out.
The driver crouched by the front wheel and shook his head. *“Bad news. Need to call for help, or we’ll be stuck all night.”*
As he dialled, Margaret, to her own surprise, felt a wave of relief. She stepped off the bus and said,
*“We’re not far out—I’ll walk back. If help doesn’t come, you’re welcome in the village.”*
*“They’ll be an hour or so,”* he said. *“Sure you won’t wait?”*
*“No,”* she said firmly. *“It’s only a mile. I’ll manage.”*
*“You sure?”*
*“Of course!”* She smiled. *“Walked worse roads—mushroom picking, trips to the next village for bread.”*
She strode back towards Hazelbrook, her bag suddenly light, her heart singing. Eleanor, wheeling her barrow home, spotted her and gasped.
*“Well, I never! What’s this?”*
*“Seems the house won’t let me go,”* Margaret laughed. *“I’ll call my son so he doesn’t wait. Bus broke down just past the village—something with the wheel. You know these roads.”*
*“Good riddance, then!”* Eleanor beamed. *“Come for supper. Your place’ll be cold; mine’s all ready. We’ll talk.”*
Old Rex barked joyfully at the sight of her, tail wagging. Whiskers darted inside, heading straight for his bowl.
Margaret set down her bag and declared,
*“Lord, forgive me! What was I thinking? I’m not going anywhere.”*
Whiskers meowed in reply.
*“Speaking for the Almighty, are you?”* Margaret chuckled. *“Or just agreeing?”*
The cat rubbed against her legs before leaping into her lap.
*“Wait—I must call John, or he’ll worry,”* she said, dialling her son.
*“John, listen—the bus broke down… Yes, just past the village. Seems it wasn’t meant to be. I’m home. Don’t wait—I’m staying. No, really, something with the wheel. And you know what? I’m not leaving. Sorry, love. Turn the buyers away—apologise for me.”*
*“Mum, you sure?”* John asked. *“Funny you say that—they backed out today. Kept the deposit, left a couple hundred quid as compensation.”*
*“Well, there you go!”* Margaret laughed. *“No selling now. I know for certain.”*
*“Alright, we’ll sort it later,”* John sighed.
*“What’s to sort? Home is home,”* she said. *“Forgive me, son.”*
*“What can I do with you?”* He smiled. *“That money’ll buy firewood for a few winters. I’ll order some tomorrow.”*
*“Perfect!”* Margaret cheered. *“I’ll expect you with the logs. Must tell Ellie the good news.”*
Eleanor and her husband, Nigel, were preparing supper. They rejoiced as much as Margaret when they heard.
*“This calls for a toast,”* Nigel declared, raising his glass. *“Enough of this moving nonsense, Margaret. Stay put and give us some peace. We’re used to you—we’ll not let you down. And you’ve done plenty for us.”*
*“I agree,”* Margaret said tearfully, hugging them. *“No more scares.”*
*“And most of all,”* she added, *“every sign said I should stay. Must heed the Lord.”*
*“And us, while you’re at it,”* Nigel winked.
They toasted, feasted, and long into the night, laughter and chatter spilled from their windows.
A week later, John and his wife delivered the firewood. They stacked it all day with Eleanor and Nigel’s help. Come evening, they gathered at Margaret’s, the mood light, as if the thought of selling had never crossed their minds.
The sunset that evening was breathtaking. They sat on the porch, watching in quiet wonder.
*“No place lovelier than ours,”* Margaret said softly.
John put an arm around her. *“Ours it is, Mum. Ours.”*
