The Heir
The moon was rising, silver and full, casting long shadows across the grass.
"Close your eyes," he said.
She did. She heard him rustling through the leaves, heard the soft thud of something being moved.
"Okay. Open."
He was kneeling at the base of the oak, holding a small wooden box. He opened it, and inside was not a ring, but a seed—large and brown, smooth as a river stone.
"This is from the oldest apple tree in the orchard," Kyle said. "The one your grandfather planted the year you were born. I collected it myself, last autumn. I've been keeping it safe, waiting for the right moment."
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