This is how the days passed, then.

Ink would wake up in her bed, but it wasn’t really her bed. She would look around at the room she was in and not think it familiar. Then she would realize it actually was familiar and she would smell breakfast being put on and she would remember she was at the Apple’s farm. She would get up and go through the motions of waking up and going about her day.

She would come downstairs and she would eat what Granny Smith prepared and she would do so mostly in silence. It was a silence that was not meant to last. Her first day she was quiet, but on the second day, Apple Bloom managed to break her silence and soon she was smiling and laughing just as much as the others. This would be her mornings, for the most part.

Then she would help clean up even though Granny insisted that she not. But Ink needed things to do and dishwashing, while menial, was a welcome distraction.

What she did after varied. On Tuesday, she went up to her room again and sat down at the desk that Big Mac had brought her. She stared out at the fields. In the distance she saw hills gently rising and lowering, all covered in snow.

She brought out her laptop and placed it on the desk and booted it up, but after that she could only stare at the screen. She didn’t even bother logging in. She must have stayed there for a while, staring at it, even as the screen went black. Her hands were in her lap. Neutral.

Eventually she let out a sigh, and turned off her laptop.

She did the same thing on Wednesday.

The New Year came and went without much incident. The Apples encouraged Ink to at least stay up long enough to watch the ball drop, and after that she had gone to bed without saying much else beyond a “Happy New Year.” So it was that the 1st of January came to her, almost like a dream. She woke up that day, looked outside, expecting to see something different, but no, it was still white and all was cold and she was still in this home that wasn’t hers and her mother was still in the hospital and she would be there for an unknown amount of time and Ink not knowing would never change and how could it, she thought belatedly, how could it because it did not care for whatever Ink thought?

The 1st of January, therefore, became like every other day before it, and Ink’s actions became repetitive, routine, worthless. She wasn’t even sure she was ever really doing them. And whatever conversations might have passed between herself and the other Apples there faded into memory, and then, faded further even still.

Until Friday.

On that day, after breakfast, Ink called Nurse Golding again. There was nothing new to report. Glory Quill remained in the same state, silent, comatose, near-unresponsive. Ink nodded carefully, thanked the nurse, then hung up. She hoped that her tears weren’t showing.

She went upstairs and changed into another set of clothes. She went into the bathroom stared at herself in the mirror. Once again she was reminded of how much she had changed. Hair, longer. Skin, paler. Eyes, losing their color, their vibrancy—or were they simply playing tricks on her?

“Ink?”

“Hmm?”

Ink whirled around. “Apple Bloom? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’. Just wonderin’ if you’d finished up yet.”

“Oh, not yet, sorry.”

“It’s okay. Mind if I scooch in with ya?”

“Go right ahead. It’s your home.”

Ink winced. She’d sounded unintentionally cold there, and hoped Apple Bloom hadn’t noticed.

The young girl was still dressed in her pajamas. She was not wearing her bow and her hair was a bit unruly. Both girls squeezed their respective toothpastes on their respective toothbrushes and began brushing.

Ink felt… well, what did she feel? Here she was, casually brushing her teeth beside a petite and adorable young country girl, who had so quickly grown accustomed to her presence that she had been the one to suggest that they brush together. It was odd, and yet, for some reason, was also perfectly natural.

When they had finished, Apple Bloom let out a little hum. “Y’know something, Ink?” she said.

“What, Apple Bloom?”

“Me and Applejack used to do this a lot.”

“Brush your teeth together?”

“Eeyup. We only had this one sink, this one bathroom. Sometimes it was just faster t’ not wait for someone else to finish.”

“Really? That sounds nice.”

“Yeah… but then we just stopped.”

“Why?”

“Dunno,” Apple Bloom said with a shrug. “I guess we just kinda outgrew it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I kinda miss those days. What about you? You ever do this before?”

“No. I don’t have any siblings.”

“Really?”

And that started a conversation about Ink’s family. Somehow, the conversation was far nicer and less morose than the one she had had with Mac days earlier. Maybe it was because of Apple Bloom’s childlike curiosity, so innocent and eager to simply learn, and perhaps that tickled Ink in ways Mac simply could not. She found herself smiling as Apple Bloom extolled on her the terrible vices that came with siblinghood.

“I mean, just because I’m the youngest in the family doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing,” the young girl said, a brush in her hand. “Sure, I’m not as big as Big Mac or as Applejack, but that don’t mean I’m just another kid, y’know?”

“It does sound a little annoying, sure.”

“Tell me about it! I swear, I think they still think I’m just another tyke. Big Mac’s the worst offender of that!”

“Ah heard that!” the “worst offender” called from downstairs.

“I hope you did!”

Ink giggled. “I’m sure they aren’t all that bad.”

“Naw, they aren’t. I love them just the same, y’know?” Apple Bloom glanced up at Ink. “In fact… I bet you do know, don’t you?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” But the girl would not answer.

They went back to fixing themselves up, but Ink was quick to notice Apple Bloom struggling with her hair. “Consarnit!” she squeaked. “Can’t ever get this stupid thing to move right…”

“Hey, careful. You don’t want to pull out your roots.”

“But—gah! It’s just so stubborn!”

“It fits the owner.” Ink laughed. “Here, let me help.”

“Huh? Oh…”

Ink took the brush and began to softly comb through Apple Bloom’s hair. “There. You gotta be gentle with it, especially if it’s morning-hair like this.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t want to hurt it. You have to take care of your hair now, or else you’ll start losing it well before you should. And now, you just—”

“Oh, I see!”

The young girl’s hair had now gone back to its usual style, though it was not completely straight—a bit of stylistic interpretation on Ink’s part. Ink stepped back, holding the brush. “Well? How does that look?”

“It looks great, Ink!” Apple Bloom exclaimed. She twirled around, peering at herself from every angle. “Ah swear, yer like a natural stylist or somethin’. Applejack can’t ever get it right, and I doubt she’d hold a candle up to what you just did! Where’d you learn all that?”

“Oh, it was nothing. And I learned it from… my mother.”

Apple Bloom stopped twirling. She faced Ink, face suddenly somber. “Oh. I didn’t mean…”

Ink placed a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder. “No, it’s all right. I just…” She sucked in a breath. “It just hurts, you know? It hurts a lot.”

Apple Bloom said nothing. Instead, she dove into Ink and hugged her, tightly. And Ink hugged her back.

It was perfectly natural.

For some reason, Apple Bloom would not leave Ink’s side for the rest of the day. Not that Ink minded. The young girl was vibrant company, and the sad moment from before was quickly forgotten, thanks in no small part to Bloom’s curiosity.

“So you’re writing a book?” she asked. They were in Ink’s room, standing by the desk, the laptop still unopened.

Ink looked over there. “Trying to, anyway. It’s a lot of work.”

“I’m sure. So I guess that means you read a lot?”

“I try to. You know what they say—”

“What do they say?”

“There are only two things you must do to be a writer: read a lot, and write a lot.” Ink smirked a little. She had told Artifex this once, and he had confessed that he wasn’t much of a reader.

Apple Bloom nodded. She put her hands behind her back and rocked back-and-forth on her toes. “Well… then what’s your favorite book?”

“Of all time?”

“‘Course all time! Why would I ask what’s your favorite book for this week?”

Ink giggled. Then she put a finger to her chin. “Well… to be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve read so many, it’s hard to choose. Like picking your favorite family member.”

“Winona.”

“Who?”

“That’s our dog. She’s probably outside playin’ with Big Mac in the snow.”

They looked out the window that was in Ink’s room and saw him playing with a brown, furry blur. “Guess that’s her,” Ink said. “Huh. I didn’t know you guys had a dog.”

“Had her for some years—hey!” She pointed a finger at Ink. “Don’t try an’ change the subject!”

“I didn’t. That was all you.”

“... Yeah, well… don’t change the subject anyway!”

Ink laughed and patted the top of Apple Bloom’s head. “Are you sure you don’t cause trouble for your family?”

“Only as much as is to be expected.”

“Mmhmm. Well, let me think…” Ink tapped her chin. “I can’t tell you what my favorite book is, but I can tell you who my favorite author is. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He goes by… well, it’s a little funny, his name.”

“What is it?”

“Prose.”

“Wow. Talk about having yer life cut out fer ya. But I don’t think I’ve heard of him.”

“Really? He’s pretty famous. I think Rarity has read a lot of his books.”

“Well, that explains it. Any book Rarity likes, well, generally Applejack don’t, and I read what Applejack reads. Mostly.”

“Then you’re missing out!” Ink soldiered past Apple Bloom and headed for her backpack. “Here, I think I actually have a copy of one of his books in here…”

“Huh? Why would I care about some friffy romance novel?”

“So you have heard of what he writes?”

“Maybe once or twice, but still—”

“It’s not all about romance,” Ink said. She reached into her backpack and began shuffling around. “I mean, sure, the romance is there, and it’s a component of a lot of what he writes, but it’s not the main thing there.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“I mean, the romance isn’t what makes his books so good. Though, Rarity would probably argue otherwise, but let’s just ignore that—ah! Here we go!”

A green tome emerged from her bag. Its spine was bent from repeated page-turning, its cover wrinkled, its pages rumpled from dog-earing bookmarks. In embroidered golden lettering was its title: Storm Song.

Ink stood up. She turned around, book in hand, facing Apple Bloom. “See, here’s the thing about great writing. It has layers. It’s more than just its genre. It speaks to the reader about a lot of things, things that the author finds interesting, or enlightening, or, better yet, true. And that’s what Prose does with his writing. He writes about the truth—the, uh, truth about people, as it were. He isn’t just writing about people falling in love. He’s writing about conflicts between people, the power of love and friendship, the remarkable destruction of tragedy sometimes, and a bunch of other things. It’s, ah…” Her voice trailed off. “It’s, well… it’s stuff that I want to write about.”

Apple Bloom reached out and took the book from her. She flipped it over and scanned the back summary. “Oh, wow. This is also a murder-mystery?”

“Mmhmm. A very good one, too. It’s actually the first in the series—”

Ink paused. She watched Apple Bloom as she opened the book and began to read. Soon she was flipping through the pages fervently, her lips following the words silently. Then, abruptly, she looked up at Ink. “Er… do you mind if… I mean, if it’s no problem…”

Ink smiled. “Sure, you can read it. Let me know what you think.”

Apple Bloom let out a uncharacteristically high-pitched squeal. “Oh, thank you thank you thank you! I promise I’ll take good care of it!”

She hugged Ink for the second time that day. And this time, it was for a much better reason.

Lunch passed. They had warm chicken noodle soup—“The best thing to have on a cold day,” Granny Smith said, which the others affirmed—and bread. Afterwards, the phone rang, and Granny Smith answered.

She hung up some minutes later. “That was Filthy Rich. Seems he wants to get started on his ‘New Year, New Deal’ partnership with us. Applejack, wanna come along and see how a real Apple negotiates?”

“Sure thing, Granny.”

“Apple Bloom?”

“Ew, no thanks. I don’t want t’ see Diamond Tiara that soon. I’ll just stay home.”

“Big Mac?”

Big Mac politely declined. He had some other things he had to do around the home. Applejack and Granny Smith grabbed their coats and keys and headed out. Apple Bloom went up to her room, likely to read Prose’s book, and Big Mac vanished somewhere else. Ink was left on her own.

She checked her phone. Artifex had texted her, saying how, if she wasn’t up to it, he would be willing to cancel their usual Saturday meetups. She sent him a quick text, saying that she’d like to try it still anyway. She scrolled through the other messages. There was one from Gaige, asking if she was all right, and one from Hazel, asking the same thing, all in the same group chat. She sent the same message to them both: “I’m doing okay.” It wasn’t a total lie, but not a total truth, either.

She paused, then added, “Though, I do miss you guys. Winter Break has been way too long.”

A message from Gaige read, “Yeah, well, that’s what Jarvy gets for dragging his story. We’ll see each other soon, I’m sure.”

Hazel: “Yeah, what Gaige said! Except, you know, for the first part.”

Ink managed a smile.

She spent some time in her room, mulling about. Occasionally she would look at her laptop and would be seized by the notion that she should open it, turn it on, get to work—and then the feeling would be gone and she would face it no more. Soon she was bored. She paced across her room, looking for something to do. She made her bed for the upteenth time. She rearranged the furniture, only to put everything back. She looked out her window and saw Big Mac outside, by the log pit, swinging an axe down repeatedly.

She watched him, and perhaps that tree out back watched her, carefully, too, staring back at her less like a mirror and more like a separate guardian entity. Maybe it was watching her because it felt she was a threat, or perhaps, more likely, it was curious as she was curious, and was watching her, waiting for her to do something.

It watched her watching him, and then it watched her leave the window entirely.

Big Mac swung. The wood was split down the middle and fell over again to the side. He picked up another log. He placed it on the stump. He swung. Again. The wood was split and fell. He picked up another log and swung and repeated this.

It was cold, but the work kept him warm. He took off his hat and felt the wind kiss his face. He smiled. It was cold, but it was the cold that kept you alive. He wiped his brow with his gloved hand and returned to the task. He swung. Wood split down. Over and over. Easy like that.

After the tenth log was split, he stopped and leaned on the end of the axe. The clouds were rolling across the sky, masking it in a grey veil. He looked to the log pile now. He saw that the pile was high again and there was now plenty of wood to be burned. If they had extra he figured he could give it to the neighbors or donate some logs to the school’s woodworking class. The Friendship Games were coming up. Perhaps they could use the extra material for practice, and if not for practice, then for the event itself.

He let out a breath. The air was cold, too. He wondered, absentmindedly, if he should have coffee or hot chocolate later. Bitter beverage or sweet delight? What would Granny Smith recommend?

Then he picked up the axe and went back to work. The time passed as the axe fell and the logs split. His arms heaved and soon his back was sore with effort. Still he kept working.

“That looks like fun.”

Mac stopped. He pushed a log that had caught on the stump off, and then leaned on the axe, glancing up. “Well, I wouldn’t call it that, Ink.”

She had dressed up again in her familiar, purple jacket. He noted flecks of snow stuck in her hair, quickly melting. Her cheeks were red from the cold. “Really?” she said. “And what would you call it?”

“Wood chopping,” he said. “Or work. Same difference.”

“Mm.”

Her arms were crossed. “What brings you out here?” Mac asked. “It’s warmer inside.”

“I got bored.”

“That so? Wanna take a swing at these logs, then?”

She stuck out her tongue. “I’m not that bored.”

Mac chuckled. “Was jus’ a suggestion, Ink.”

He pulled another log from the pile and placed it on the stump, readying the axe with his other hand.

“Hold on a minute,” Ink said, stopping him.

“Wuh?”

“Here.” She stretched out her arm. In it was a warm cup of what smelled of hot chocolate. He saw in her other hand was another cup, presumably of the same beverage.

He nodded graciously and took the cup from her, letting the axe drop to the snowy earth. He took a sip. “Say, is that… cinnamon? You remembered?”

She took a sip from her own cup. “Well, you were the one who introduced me to the idea, with coffee anyway…”

“Glad you liked it, Ink. Mighty glad.”

They were both quiet, then. Mac watched Ink carefully. She was looking out over the fields, her eyes distant and thinking. He wondered what about. Maybe about her novel. Or more likely her mother. His thoughts turned to Mrs. Quill, and he hoped in the silence of his heart that she would be all right.

And when she was all right, Ink would go to her, and then in time she would return home. And that was good, wasn’t it? Yes, it was good. It was the best good they could hope for.

And yet…

Mac didn’t allow himself that thought. It was selfish. She had been through so much, and he would be damned if his thoughts strayed beyond helping her. So he contented himself with hoping for the best for Ink.

He watched her for a moment longer, then turned his head and looked over where she looked, over the fields, and together they were both thinking.

“Um… Ink?”

Both of them turned at the sound of Apple Bloom’s voice. She had come through the snow, bundled up, and Mac saw a book in her hand—the book, he presumed correctly, that Ink had given her.

“What’s up, Apple Bloom?” the girl beside him said.

“It’s, ah… I’m just wondering if you could explain this passage to me.”

Apple Bloom walked up to Ink, the pages to the book open to face her. Ink scanned them. Then her eyes lit up like amethyst jewels. “Oh! Yes, this part is a little tricky, but if you think about it like this…”

Why hadn’t Mac noticed this before? Perhaps it was because he had not been privy to see this side of Ink. Perhaps it was a side that had never come out beforehand, a side that had not been revealed until circumstances demanded it. He drank his hot chocolate and leaned on his axe. Who would have thought Ink and Apple Bloom would have hit it off so well? Almost as though the two had grown up side by side, as sisters…

A smile, however conspicuous, worked its way across his tired face.

He had come inside and had showered and changed into cleaner, simple clothes when the doorbell rang. Ink and Apple Bloom were also inside, pooling over the book at the dining room table. They were busy, so he had gone to open the door.

Applejack and Granny Smith had not texted him, so he figured they weren’t back yet. Still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to open that door. The person behind it was furiously banging on the bell, like their life depended on it. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled as he pulled on a sweater and came down the stairs, “I’m comin’, hold yer horses.”

“Someone’s impatient,” Ink remarked from the dining room.

“Yer telling me,” Mac said. “Ain’t the politest thing to do, banging that bell, but it is what it is.”

He stepped over to the door and undid the lock. “All right, you,” he said, pulling the door open, “what is it—”

He let out a strangled gasp as the door opened in its entirety. This brought Ink and Apple Bloom running into the foyer. “Mac?” Ink was quick to ask, coming to his side. “What’s wrong—”

Apple Bloom’s voice, suddenly filled with vehemence and anger, cut her off. “You!”

Ink turned to look at the person in the doorway, and saw no one familiar.

But the person smiled despite Apple Bloom’s sudden ferocity. “Well, at least I know I’m remembered.” She turned to Mac. “And what about you? Surely you remember me?”

It took a while for Mac to find his voice, but when he did, it came out just as strangled as his gasp.

“Sugar Belle?”