The third worst thing about dying was watching her life flash before her eyes.

All the stories and books had lauded it as a deeply introspective instant to reflect on her life one last time before the end. Not one had ever said that she'd have to sit through the whole thing in real time.

The second worst thing about dying was finding out that the spirits of all her dead family got to watch along with her in a ghostly amphitheater.

That had seemed like such a blessing at first. She'd spent the first few subjective months reveling in the grandest Apple family reunion of all time. Catching up with faces she'd nearly forgotten. Meeting for the first time all the Greats and Great-greats and Great-great-greats that had passed on before she’d even been born.

Hugging her Momma again. Getting her mane tousled by Pa.

She nearly forgot about the slideshow of her life playing in the background. Baby memories weren’t much more than blurry light and noise, anyway.

It wasn't until the memories reached her early teens that she learned how much of a double-edged sword her family's presence could be.

Because the very worst thing about dying was how the film reel of her life was narrated by her own internal monologue, played back in constant stream-of-thought.

And there was no way to turn it off.

Oh mah gosh. She's so fancy. Lookit that mane. Should— should I go say hi?

"Woo! Tha's my Applejack! You go get her, girl! You see that, Grovey? That's my grandbaby right there!"

"Muzzle it, Smith! I can't hear a dang thing!"

Her momma rubbed soothing circles on her back. “Don’t let them get to you, sugarcube. We’ve all gone through it. Ain’t nothing you could say, think, or do we haven’t seen before.”

What kind of fancy things would she like? A poem? Ah could probably write a poem. 'You’re as pretty as a tree of apples, as dainty as… as a… very small apple… apples…'

Even her momma winced at that.

“Two outta ten, don’t quit your day job!”

“I tink eet’s cute, ‘ow ‘ard she iz falling.”

“Ah don’t! Somepony wake me when we get t’ her twenties, Ah’m taking a nap.”

Applejack buried her face in her hat. It only got worse from there as the years flew by.

A sleepover… in the same bed?! What if the thunder scares her and she grabs… oh no. Ah ain’t gonna catch a wink of sleep tonight!

“Make your move, filly! Grab her and— and she’s asleep. Missed the chance.”

“Nah, it ain’t happening. My money’s on her and the shy one. Them’s got real chemistry there.”

Who’s that— right, Pinkie's sister's beau. What was his name again? Dirt... Thorn?

“Mudbriar.”

That’s not right. What’s his cutie mark... Mud Stick?

“Mudbriar, you fool filly.”

Mud... Buyer?

“Nearly had it!”

Wait, he's married.

“Howdy, Mr. Pie!”

“...Well. She ain't wrong.”

Winter wrap-up, winter wrap-up~!

“No! The earworm’s back! Why?! It’s midsummer!”

“She just got it out of her head!”

“Ah don’t really mind so long as she don’t start making up new lyrics again.”

Vintner’s wrapped-up, but his wine’s slapped-up! Let’s have us some summertime cheer~

“Oh, come on!”

Relative years passed and Applejack began to wonder if this wasn't some form of infernal punishment. She’d have long since died of embarrassment if she weren't already dying of old.

Everything was laid bare. Every loss, every triumph. Every innermost secret. But at least they were supportive, as family ought to be.

Most of them.

“I do pray we might move past this trifling infatuation soon,” Great-great-great-great-aunt Crabatha Apple sighed. “Our many-times descendant hast far better prospects than some spindly-legged, soft-hooved, needlemare.”

“Hey!” Applejack snapped, “Distant kin or not, you don't talk about her like that! That's my w—”

“SPOILERS!” Half the crowd hollered and pelted her with ghostly popcorn, the laughter of the rest drowning out Crab’s tasteless rebuttal.

“Eh, not much of a spoiler,” said the tiny lilac-maned filly—nine years old yet half the size she should have been—that had clambered atop Applejack’s head on day one and rarely descended since. "I do reckon I know how it's gonna turn out."

The memories rolled on. They laughed. They cried. Granny Smith had a lot to say about her own funeral. But all too quickly they reached the end, the final weeks a blur of identical hospital ceilings.

Having seen it all a second time, Applejack was satisfied she'd lived a good life. Not one without regrets, especially near the end, but a good life nonetheless.

“So what happens now?” she asked.

“Now,” Pa said, as all the spirits began to dissolve into light. “We get back to the Beyond. Least till the next kin passes.”

As family faded, she checked for the thousandth time for a face absent from the crowd. “Missing someone?” he asked. “Don’t worry none. All Apples come our way eventually.”

“...All Apples. Right.” A stain of melancholy loss tarnished her golden contentment as she too passed into blissful light and warmth.

“Push ma'am! She's crowning!”

Applejack blinked as she found herself in the amphitheater again.

“Come on Cookie, you got this! If your sister could pop out three at once, you can do one.”

She glanced around and noticed twice the crowd she remembered, the space now half filled with unicorns she didn't recognize.

“If you want to take over, Hondo, be my gues— AAAGH!”

“Waaaah!”

“It's a filly! A darling little unicorn filly.”

Except for one.

“What happened? Where am I!? I demand to speak with— Aunt Imogene? Father? How are you here? You're dea—” Their eyes met across the room.

She was younger than she'd looked in sixty years, but as timelessly beautiful as always.

“Applejack?” that sweet voice whispered in disbelief. Her eyes trailed up and she gasped. “B-Black Diamond?”

“Momma!” A weight launched itself from Applejack’s head.

“I told ya,” Pa’s voice whispered in her ear. “All Apples make it here.”