Forage Mode Activated

When you haven’t eaten properly in three days, even lemons start to look flirtatious.

I woke to the house’s usual dawn playlist : a steady drip from the kitchen, a low groan from the staircase, and my stomach performing percussion like it had artistic ambitions.

The blanket I’d found in an upstairs trunk was rough as sandpaper, but at least it was warm enough to stop my soul from leaving my body overnight.

“Morning,” I told the ceiling. “Try not to collapse before coffee.”

No reply — unless you count one lazy creak. The house had timing.

I checked my wallet. Still tragic.

Checked the cupboards : one fork, two spoons, a pot, a dusty jar that once held peaches, and pure disappointment.

Coffee remained — the instant kind that tastes like burnt rainwater. I boiled actual rainwater from the buckets I’d placed under the leaks and tried not to think about it too hard.

The second sip hit and my brain rebooted. That’s when I saw it — a flash of yellow through the kitchen window.

Fruit? Hallucination? At this point, same difference.

I shoved on my boots and went outside.

Fog clung to the hill. Beyond the sagging shed, a row of twisted trees reached for the sky like arthritic fingers.

Apples. Real, red, heavy apples.

I picked one, polished it on my sleeve, and bit in. Sweet. Crisp. So good I almost cried.

“Okay,” I told the tree. “I take back everything I said about moving to the middle of nowhere.”

Farther down — pears.

Beyond that — lemons.

Lemons.

I started laughing, the kind of laugh that sounds halfway between relief and insanity.

“Alright, universe. You were late, but you showed up.”

By the time I went back inside, my coat pockets bulged with apples and pears and I was clutching lemons like treasure.

Greg — the enormous spider who had claimed the stove as his throne — watched me unpack.

“Don’t start,” I warned him. “I earned these.”

Using a knife and optimism, I chopped fruit into a pot, squeezed in lemon juice, and sprinkled salt instead of sugar. The smell filled the kitchen, sweet and sharp.

I ate straight from the pan, leaning against the counter, eyes closed. The warmth spread through me like forgiveness.

“Not bad, Hale,” I told myself. “You’re one viral video away from being a survival influencer.”

Then, because apparently insanity comes in stages, I started saving seeds.

Apple, pear, lemon — lined neatly on napkins.

It was ridiculous.

It was also the first plan I’d had in weeks.

Later that day, I found a half-rotten tomato in the so-called “Welcome Basket.”

A normal person would have thrown it out.

I dissected it for parts.

“Congratulations,” I told the seeds, scooping them into a jar. “You’re my retirement fund.”

I set them on the counter next to my fruit seeds and stared at the mess like it was art.

It didn’t look like much, but for the first time since Ethan’s betrayal, something inside me felt quietly alive.

Morning brought fog and a draft so cold my breath fogged the glass.

The sink was leaking again, the kitchen floor turning into a miniature lake.

Armed with duct tape, determination, and absolutely no clue, I fought the pipe until the drip stopped.

When it did, I laughed like a maniac. “Plumbing. I do plumbing now.”

The house popped somewhere in the wall, and I decided that meant applause.

I threw on my coat and went exploring the property again.

Behind the orchard — wild herbs : mint, rosemary, and something that might’ve been oregano.

I didn’t care. It smelled edible.

Soon I was back inside with dirt-covered hands, humming to myself as I arranged the herbs in cracked jars. The tune was nothing special, but I hadn’t hummed in months.

It felt good.

Like breathing properly again.

I found two broken drawers behind the shed and dragged them onto the porch.

With a nail, a rock, and an inappropriate amount of swearing, I made drainage holes and filled them with soil scraped from under the lemon trees.

One drawer got tomato seeds.

The other — a mix of herbs and wishful thinking.

I stood back, hands on hips. “Look at you. Functional chaos.”

The sky grumbled. A drizzle started.

I just laughed. “Nice try. I’m waterproof now.”

When the rain turned heavier, I ducked inside, tracking mud across the old wood floors.

Somewhere above, the roof responded with its own version of applause — a small leak directly over the armchair.

I shoved a pot under it. “We all have issues,” I muttered.

By evening, the kitchen smelled like apples and earth.

My clothes were soaked, my hair full of cobwebs, but I’d eaten.

I’d fixed something.

I’d planted something.

And for the first time in forever, that felt like enough.

I brewed tea from dried lemon peel and mint. It tasted like hot stubbornness.

Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, but instead of dread, I felt… anchored.

The house wasn’t cozy, but it was honest.

It leaked, creaked, complained — and so did I.

Maybe that’s why it hadn’t thrown me out yet.

At dawn, rainwater was dripping from three new spots.

The couch, the window frame, and — because the universe has a sense of humor — right over my coffee mug.

I climbed a ladder I didn’t trust, threw a tarp over the worst part, and nearly died when it shifted.

My scream scared off two crows and possibly a deer.

When I finally climbed down alive, I started laughing again — loud, breathless laughter that turned into a cry and then back into laughter.

“Okay,” I said to the rafters. “You win this round. But I’m coming back with nails and trauma.”

The house creaked in what I decided was respect.

Rice, chopped pears, and rosemary fried in lemon juice.

No sugar. No spice.

Still tasted like progress.

I ate cross-legged on the floor, because all the chairs wobbled, and because it felt right to be grounded.

Greg dropped lower from his web, assessing me like a landlord during rent day.

I saluted him with my spoon. “Relax, buddy. You get the next bug that dares come in here.”

He retreated. Victory.

The days started blending — work, eat, patch, repeat.

But for once, repetition didn’t mean emptiness.

Every small fix mattered. Every discovery — another piece of myself stitched back together.

The orchard became my routine : mornings collecting apples and pears, afternoons drying slices in the oven with the door cracked, evenings sipping lemon tea on the porch.

No internet, no city noise, no Ethan.

Just the wind, the birds, and the quiet hum of my own survival.

I stopped checking my phone. It didn’t work anyway.

And honestly ? I didn’t want to hear from anyone who hadn’t looked for me when I was lost.

One cold morning, I noticed a hint of green on the napkin by the window — a tiny tomato sprout pushing through.

I stared at it for a long time, smiling without realizing it.

“Look at you,” I whispered. “A bad idea that worked.”

It was small. Fragile.

But it was alive because of me.

And somehow, so was I.

That evening, I sat on the porch wrapped in my rough blanket, sipping tea.

The orchard shimmered in the last light, and for the first time since I’d arrived, I wasn’t thinking about leaving.

The house still leaked, moaned, and occasionally threatened to electrocute me.

But it had given me food. Purpose. Silence that didn’t hurt.

Tomorrow, I’d go into town, ask about odd jobs, maybe barter fruit for supplies.

Tonight, I let myself feel proud.

“Good job today,” I told the darkness.

Somewhere inside, a floorboard creaked — soft, almost like approval.

I smiled. “Yeah, you too.”

Then I went to bed on the couch, belly full, heart quiet, the faint smell of apples and mint wrapping around me like a promise that maybe, just maybe, I was starting over for real.