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the orchard suite: Peter & Grisha
The Orchard Suite: Peter & Grisha
Act I – In the Study, Before It All
His hand—always cold, always ink-stained—
hovered near mine while he read.
Grisha didn’t ask questions the way others did;
he asked slowly, as if answers were sacred.
“Peter,” he said once, “Do shadows grow tired of trees?”
I had no reply. I only nodded.
We never needed many words.
Silence, with him, was not emptiness. It was shelter.
Act II – Moments Before
There was a new tightness in his voice.
He frowned more often—not angrily,
just like someone trying to hold together a page mid-rip.
He walked the river twice that week,
but never said a word about water.
He asked me if people change when no one’s watching.
I had a lecture to give that day, far from the orchard.
The university halls were louder than usual.
They debated revolution. And somewhere while I argued
the morality of labour, Grisha stepped into silence.
Act III – The River Remembers
The river was calm that morning,
like it knew it would be asked to carry more than water.
Grisha didn’t fall. He leaned. Not with despair—no.
With longing. With quiet.
I imagine him thinking, “Is this what forgetting feels like?”
He did not scream. He did not fight.
He just unstitched himself from morning.
Act IV – Peter’s Return, Years Later
When I returned, the orchard was thinner,
like time had pruned it deliberately.
I walked to the river.
The water still moved, indifferent and steady.
I brought no flowers. Just my voice.
“I speak of tomorrow,” I said aloud,
“but you were my yesterday.”
And somewhere beneath the current,
I swear I felt the weight of a gaze—
not accusing, not bitter, just still.
