I pick it up and hold it in my frozen fingers. In my world of death, this apple is an expression of life, and her act is the product of love. I glance up in time to see the girl disappearing into the distance.
The next day, I am drawn to that spot near the fence, as if pulled by a magnetic force. Am I crazy for hoping she will come again? Of course. But in here, I cling to any tiny trace of hope.
Again, she comes. And again, she brings me an apple, flinging it over the fence with greater precision than before so that the apple flies over the fence and drops directly above me.