The sun had not risen yet, but Braeburn had been awake for a while now. He had trouble sleeping these days.
All throughout the night, he would sleep for just a few short hours; before staying up the rest of the night. Braeburn swore he was being watched, so he stayed up and listened to everything that happened around his shack. If somepony were to try and get in, he would hear them.
He's never heard anyone enter, and thankfully, the feeling goes away when he goes inside. Every time he leaves his shack though, without fail, he feels eyes on him.
As much as he hated it, there was work to be done, and he was the only stallion who could do it. So he kicked off his cover, slid on his vest, donned his stetson, grabbed an apple from the kitchen, and went outside to start working.
It was a typical morning, with soft bird songs in the distance and the sun beginning to rise on the horizon, bathing the landscape in warm, gentle light. There was barely a cloud in the sky—perfect weather for a farmer.
Braeburn started his day by tending to his apple trees. He checked the apples for signs of rot or disease, made sure each tree had enough nutrients by adding fertilizer where necessary, and trimmed any dead branches or leaves that needed to be removed. Then he inspected the soil around each tree, making sure it was still rich and fertile.
All the while, he felt the eyes on him.
The dead branches and leaves were thrown into garbage bags, and he began hauling the bags to a small shed for composting. Two bags were hauled over, that was all he could carry.
With the heavy bags weighing him down, Braeburn trotted over to the shed. He unceremoniously dumped the bags in the right spot, groaning as the weight came off his back. Later he would empty the bags into composters, he just needed to get all the bags to the shed.
He wiped a hoof across his brow and took a moment to catch his breath, all the while keeping his ears pricked and listening to the world around him. Braeburn could have sworn he heard something moving through the undergrowth behind him, but when he looked, there was nothing there.
taking a deep breath, he shook his head. It was probably another one of those hallucinations he'd been having. It wasn't the first time he thought he saw or heard something that wasn't there.
Braeburn turned around and went to grab the remaining three bags, only to remember that he had already carried all the bags to the shed. He began walking back towards there when he heard the soft sound of... giggling?
He froze in place and strained his ears, listening intently for any hint of the source of the sound.
He searched the area around him, looking around for any sign of life that could have produced the sound. His eyes darted from tree to tree, from bush to bush, all the while keeping an ear out for another sound.
But Braeburn heard nothing, saw nothing. There was only the soft rustling of leaves in the wind, the chirping of birds, and the distant sound of the morning train approaching the Appleloosa train station. The silence that followed was deafening, and after several moments of tense waiting, Braeburn began to doubt that he had heard anything at all.
So the stallion got back to work, there were apples to buck.
He began to make his way through the trees, inspecting the apples and checking for any that were ripe. When he found a tree with a lot of ripe apples, he took his apple-bucking stance, tensed his muscles, and took a deep breath before he lashed out at the tree with his back hooves.
Braeburn was like a bucking machine. He'd carry over three tubs for hauling apples, and then watch as they all filled up with ripe apples. Sometimes he'd get so into the zone that he'd carry tubs over to trees and not even remember it.
Three tubs turned into six, six turned into 12, and Braeburn didn't remember bucking anymore trees, but there were 16 tubs in total... nobody else worked on his farm, so he must have bucked them all.
Taking a step back, Braeburn stood amongst countless apple tubs, each filled to bursting with ripe apples. He had no idea how he had managed to buck all these trees. He could have sworn he only bucked a few, yet somehow all the apple trees had been harvested.
His brow wrinkled as he tried to recall the exact number of trees he had bucked, but try as he might, he couldn't remember bucking more than four or five trees.
He frowned. Just how many apples did he harvest today?
Obviously he bucked enough trees to fill 16 tubs, all full of ripe apples. Nopony else was here...
His frown deepened, this whole situation was making him more and more confused. He had no memory of bucking that many trees, yet here he was, staring at 16 tubs filled to the brim with ripe apples.
The feeling of being watched returned like a lead weight on his shoulders. He looked around anxiously, his eyes darting from tree to tree, bush to bush, searching every shadow and dark corner.
But again, there was nothing. No sign of any other pony on his farm except himself.
Now that he had all these apples, they needed to be processed. He had a small barn where he kept the equipment to make apple sauce and apple juice.
With the 16 tubs of apples loaded onto a wagon, Braeburn made his way to the small barn that housed all of the necessary equipment to make apple products.
He pushed open the barn door with a hoof and stepped inside, the familiar odor of apples and preservatives filling his nostrils. The barn was dimly lit, with only a few shafts of sunlight streaming in through cracks in the walls.
The Apple Family have prioritized quality over quantity ever since their founding, and Braeburn was no different, he began by sorting the apples one by one, searching for any blemishes, or bruises that would hinder the apple's quality. The bruised or blemished apples would be sold for animal feed, the good apples would be used to make sauces and juices, while the very best apples would be sold in the market as is. Nothing could beat a crisp and juicy Apple Family Apple.
The sorting process was thorough and meticulous. Braeburn examined each apple with a practiced eye. He was determined to maintain the reputation of the Apple Family, and even took a moment to give each unblemished apple a little rub and polish, just to make sure they were perfect.
The whole process took Braeburn hours, but he was thorough and methodical, and before long, he had sorted through all the apples and categorized each one.
With this task done, he began loading the boxed up apple juice onto his wagon for easier transport to town at the end of the week. His juicer still wet with apple juice from the juicing process.
With the apple juice packaged up and ready to go, Braeburn turned his attention to the next task of the day: cleaning the juicer.
He grabbed a cleaning rag he kept in the barn and started wiping down the juicer, methodically cleaning away the sticky apple residue. The rag was quickly soaked through with the mixture of apple juice and pulp, leaving it sodden and dripping.
In no time at all, the juicer was clean again, all the while, he felt like he was being watched. Though, strangely enough, he didn't remember processing the apple juice. He couldn't recall putting the apples into the juicer, he couldn't recall the juicer ever being turned on, and he couldn't remember bottling the apple juice either.
He paused mid-wipe, a cold shiver running down his back. How could he not remember processing the apple juice? The entire process of peeling, juicing, and bottling should have been clear in his mind, but try as he might, he couldn't recall a single moment of it.
The feeling of being watched returned once more, stronger this time. Braeburn looked around, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, but there was nothing there.
Braeburn wasn't feeling well, he must just be working too hard, or spending too much time out in the sun... Though, his mental state might have something to do with him staying up so late at night. He tried to push aside the feeling of dread that was slowly taking hold of him, attributing it to exhaustion and stress. He had been running himself ragged lately, working from dawn till dusk so consistently.
The long nights spent up late didn't help either—his already poor sleep had gotten even worse lately, as he watched and listened for anyone outside.
Suddenly, Braeburn froze in his tracks. His eyes glazed over, and he seemed lost in thought.
"Ah reckon ah could use some sleep," he mumbled, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion.
Braeburn stumbled towards his shack, his legs heavy and sluggish.
The usually steady farmer now struggled with each step, stumbling and weaving as he made his way to the door of the shack. His eyes were half-closed in exhaustion, and his thoughts were fuzzy and unfocused.
He paused at the front door, his hoof hovering over the handle as he tried to gather the strength to open it. He was so tired, so exhausted, and all he wanted to do was sleep.
The door opened and he felt like he was almost being guided to bed; a magic spell that had enchanted his hooves and made them trot back to bed.
"Ah've worked hard today. I deserve some rest."
The moment he reached his bed, Braeburn fell into it face-first, his body completely exhausted. The bed's soft embrace seemed to pull him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Hopefully, tomorrow would be better.
Author's Note
Everything's on fire.
