It was a sunny day – perfect for hopscotch, skipping and, most importantly, gardening, which is exactly what Emily Swift was doing. She was on her knees, digging and planting, digging and planting. Emily liked the repetition of it. If she was bored or unhappy, you would find her in the garden, listening to the birdsong and running her hands over the soft bark of the apple tree. It would tell her of every single apple it had grown, describing how each one had been carefully crafted, green and red, and how it had been specially picked, ready for jam or crumble.
The leaves swayed in the wind, just enough to make the goldfinches nesting in it wobble gently. The tree itself was beautiful, blossoming at the moment, with big,…
