The last cluster of grapes on that branch lay crushed in the dirt. Robert crouched beside it, staring for a long time. He didn’t pick the grapes up. Didn’t brush the soil away. He just looked, the breath caught in his throat.
Something in him sagged. He wasn’t just losing control of his land—he was failing the memory of the one person who had loved it completely. He wandered back to the house in a haze. The porch door creaked as he stepped inside.