You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Most things grow, fruit, and fall to sleep. Fields empty. Vines brown. Trees go still. We call it a cycle because we like the comfort of knowing what comes next. But some places ignore the wheel. They step off, keep walking, bear fruit when they shouldn’t, and whisper in months that should be quiet.

On the edge of a small town where the highway gives up and two lanes narrow to one, there’s an orchard fenced in with wire that’s learned to sag. The sign at the lane is sun-paled to the color of old bone. The name once read Halloway Orchard. Now it reads —ll—y if you catch it from the right angle. The farm closed decades ago. Tractors sold. House caved. Yet the trees remain. They bloom in January, drop fruit in March, sweeten in the dog days and in first snow both. Every season piles on top of the last like pages that forgot to turn.

They call it the Orchard That Never Died.

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