[ you light the incense burner, and a pleasant, smell of citrus and spice wafts through the room. there's a nostalgic feeling to it, even though your memories are missing you think you almost could recall—

almost. . .? ]

[ you remember the orchard burning.

the heat is unbearable and the trees that provided so well for you and others are withering to char and ash in the flickering flames. the sickness started with the apples, they said.

before that they said it started with the water that carried a taint. with the touch of a stranger from foreign lands. you wear gloves and don't feel guilty hiding the warped claws at the ends of your digits, because even if it's true, the damned silly fools are doing a good job destroying themselves anyway. ]

[ . . . your hands are fine. ]