Phillip wasn't sure what exactly was pulling him towards Sweet Apple Acres one fall day as dusk started to set across Ponyville. But this instinct, this feeling he had, was proving irresistible.

He passed beneath the decorated wooden arch, taking in the scent of the flowers in the cool air. He noticed a rose bush that appeared to have had a small bouquet cut from it next to the path towards the barn and house, the reds and purples of the country home mixing with the sky.

He spotted Big Mac, carrying two baskets full of apples, walking towards the house from the trees. The farm pony paused and turned to him. Phillip noted the small cuts on his mouth, and the fact that his mane had been combed.

He touched the brim of his trilby in greeting. "G'day. I'm Phillip Finder. You must be Big Macintosh."

"Eeyup," was the reply.

"You need help with those apples?"

"Nope."

"Is Applejack here?"

"Eeyup." Big Mac pointed out towards the back of the house.

"Thanks." Phil started to walk off, then remembered that he'd seen a vase of new roses displayed on the windowsill of a certain school teacher.

"By the way, Miss Cheerilee liked the roses. But I think she prefers daisies."

Big Mac's mouth, cuts and all, dropped open comically and he stared wide eyed at Phillip, who briefly smirked once his back was turned.

Coming around to the back of the house, Phillip's ears, trained for years to be particularly acute, picked up Applejack's quiet voice. He headed down a well-trodden path leading away from the house to a hill. Without knowing why, he approached cautiously; even though she was too far away for him to understand what she was saying, something about the tone of Applejack's voice made him feel as though whatever was happening, it was sacred.

Climbing the hill, he paused to examine the scene before him. Applejack was sitting on the ground before two stone slabs planted in the ground, talking quietly, her stetson shielding her eyes from the setting sun.

Didn't take a detective.

Phillip waited until Applejack paused, then coughed quietly to announce his presence. Applejack jumped and noticed him. "Oh, it's you, Phil."

"G'day." Phillip approached, noting the names on the graves. He sat down next to her. The two were silent for a while.

"What was your father like?"

The question momentarily confused Phillip; it took him a moment to acknowledge the fact that Applejack had asked him a question.

"If y'all don't mind me asking..."

"My father was a very kind stallion," he said. "He believed that all life was precious, that nopony should be treated badly just cause they're different. He stuck up for others...me included. Never one to stand by when somepony else needed help. And he knew how to stretch a bit, I'll tell ya." He let out a small laugh. "Being a jazz musician doesn't pay very well."

"Yeah, Ah guess not," Applejack said.

"Y'know," Phillip said. "It's kinda funny. I see so much of him in myself."

"Ain't funny at all," Applejack said. "Ah lost Ma and Pa when I was about the same age that you lost your Pa. Heart condition. It hurt a lot. Still does...every day," she added, lowering her gaze.

"I feel the same, mate." At least it wasn't your fault that they died, Phillip thought but kept silent.

"But, over time, I realized that they'd never really left me," she said. "They taught me so much; honesty, being a friend to everypony, the joy of an honest day's work." She took her stetson off. "You see this?"

Phillip examined the hat. It was old and faded; covered in dust, a couple patches and stitches, some burns on the front of the brim (probably from her burning her apple tarts).

"It was my pa's," she said. "Ah wear it every day to remind me that I carry a bit of him with me. Whenever I'm in trouble and ah think ah can't make it, Ah just think about him, what he'd do. And then I do it."

Applejack placed the stetson back on her head. "Your father's never left you, Phil. Keep that in mind."

The two were silent for a bit more. The sun dipped a bit more beneath the horizon, the reds and oranges turning into purples.

"I knew that hat was your father's."

It was Applejack's turn to be momentarily bewildered, then she let out a little laugh. "Now how'd y'all figure that out? Was it the burns on the brim or the stitching on the back?"

"Cause of this," Phillip said, removing his trilby and holding it out for Applejack to examine. The charcoal gray and black band had faded with time and weather, been patched and stitched, but had the look of something that had been allowed to grow old, but was still cared for.

"We both know of things that are passed down from our fathers," Phillip said, replacing the trilby on his head and turning to leave. As he got to his hooves and turned to head down the hill, he glanced back at Applejack, still sitting before her parent's graves.

"Applejack. Thanks."

She smiled at him. "Any time."

Author's Notes:

This came to me one day when I was trying to think of new ideas for stories.

I don't think Applejack's parents will ever really be confirmed to be dead, but the idea that they are is just breeding ground for so many great stories about how much family impacts our lives. A lesson that Phillip has learned.

Like, fav and comment if you feel inclined.

Josiah