There it was, the quince, sitting in the light like it had all the time in the world. Golden and heavy, it leaned just enough to cast a shadow, but not enough to fall. You could see the others behind it, one split open, the others marked by time. They were still there, though, holding on. That’s what fruit does—it holds on, even when it’s past the point of ripeness.

The light hit the quince just right, like it had been waiting for that moment all day. It was beautiful, but not in the way people talk about beauty. It was beautiful because it was there, because it had lasted this long, even with the others around it bruised and broken. The world moves fast, but this quince, it stayed golden, for now. And you knew, looking at it, that it wouldn’t last forever, but for this moment, it was enough. That’s all there is to it.