Mothersgrove - I got a job in a fruit factory but there is something weird about the fruit - part three

April 9th

I want to be happy for Anna. I am happy for her.

But a selfish part of me dreaded today.

No more of our usual camaraderie—no quiet laughs over conveyor belts, no whispered jokes as we scrubbed our hands or slipped on our hairnets. Today, I would be alone. Just me and the fruit.

I scolded myself.

No. Don’t be ridiculous.

Anna earned this. She fought tooth and nail for it. We’ll still see each other on breaks.

I shook the thoughts from my head and stepped outside.

But she wasn’t waiting for me.

The path to the factory felt longer without her beside me. I kept glancing around, expecting her to pop out from behind a bush with a grin. But the entrance was empty. I guessed her new role started earlier—or later—than mine. With a heavy heart, I pushed through the factory doors.

Hairnet. Hand wash. Line up.

The morning dragged. Even the soft warmth spilling through the wide windows did little to lift my spirits. I knew I was being ungrateful, and I hated myself for it. I was safe here. Cared for. Stable. My life was better now than it had ever been.

I focused on the work.

Pick. Sort. Discard. Repeat.

Then, mid-shift, I almost screamed.

An apple passed beneath my hands—its skin puckered strangely, a soft bump where none should be. I picked it up to inspect it, and for the briefest moment, I swear it blinked. A tiny, wet, red-rimmed eye fluttered open and shut.

When I looked again, there was nothing. Just a malformed lump on the fruit’s surface. I tossed it into the reject basket, my hands trembling slightly. The next pear I picked up felt all wrong—its skin gave under my fingers like firm jelly, pliable and too soft, almost…breathing.

Most of the fruit was fine.

I kept telling myself that.

Most of the fruit was fine.

At lunch, I sat alone at the spot Anna and I always shared near the loading dock. The grass was warm, the sun kind, but she never came. I realized I’d never actually asked what her promotion was. I’d just assumed—something like Julia’s role, a supervisor here on the floor.

But she hadn’t joined Julia this morning. Hadn’t come through the factory at all.

I picked at the wildflowers near my boots until the break bell rang.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

After the final whistle, I found Julia near the admin station and asked casually what Anna’s new role was. What hours she worked now. Where I might find her.

Julia blinked at me, surprised—like she hadn’t expected anyone to notice Anna was gone.

“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” she said. “She’s been promoted to a supervisor role like mine, but at one of the Mother Grove’s new branches. They’ve moved her to the newer building. Her things will be shipped over tomorrow.”

I nodded quickly and turned away before she could see my face.

Tears came fast and hot, sliding down my cheeks before I could stop them. I stumbled from the building and leaned against one of the trees lining the path home, willing myself to stay upright.

The tears kept coming. Hungry things, ravenous. They clawed at my energy, devouring it, wanting to bloom into something bigger. Something rooted. My grief opened like a seed in wet soil, unfurling tender petals I recognized too well.

I felt abandoned.

Adrift.

Betrayed.

Why hadn’t she told me? Anna had said she was being promoted, yes—but not that it meant leaving. Not that it meant being transferred to some other branch. Some new building I’d never seen. A piece of paradise she’d never mentioned.

I thought we had something real. A connection. A bond.

And now that thread I’d imagined between us lay cut. The cord slack and useless at my feet.

That night, I didn’t eat.

I couldn’t.

I climbed into bed and cried myself to sleep, still clutching the little drawing Anna had given me.

The one with both of us, smiling, hand in hand beneath the clouds.

April 10th

I can’t stop thinking about Anna.

This morning, on my way out, I glanced at her apartment door — it was cracked open. I know she moved to the new building, but it seems strange that she didn't take anything.she had arrived here with me and the same pitiful amount of items stuffed into bags. She only had one pair of shoes to her name and they were still gently nestled next to the door. Would they have sent her away without any shoes on?

I wanted to peek inside, but before I could, Julia appeared out of nowhere. She quickly closed the door and gave me a tight smile, something forced and sharp behind it.

She said something about “Grove 9” and that Anna was working there now. I asked what that meant exactly, but she just looked away.

Later, on my way to work, I noticed men in those beekeeper suits carrying heavy dirt marked crates labelled “Grove 9.” They headed straight toward the orchard. I followed at a distance, but the orchard gates were locked tight.

I don’t know what’s happening, but it doesn’t feel right.

I’m worried about Anna.

I can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong.

April 11th

I can’t shake this pit in my stomach—that feeling inside that screams for you to run. It’s even creeping into my dreams, I think. I can’t quite remember them, just glimpses—twisted trees, ripe fruit bursting, spilling slimy seeds onto the floor, and a wail.

Splashing water on my face, I try to snap myself out of it.

Maybe I’m just reading too much into it. Missing Anna. Feeling lonely. That’s probably it. And maybe it’s a side effect of coming off my meds—I was bound to feel down and wayward.

I left the apartment feeling exhausted and worn out with worry. Passing Anna’s locked door again, my heart sank.

Work was the same—nice fruit, deformed fruit, sort and order, organize and reject. I tried not to think too hard about the strange fruit or their weird shapes.

At lunch, I didn’t want to sit in our usual spot. It didn’t feel the same without Anna’s steady presence beside me. So I wandered the gardens, aimless, before winding onto a path that led to the back entrance of the orchard.

My foot brushed something on the gravel—a small, damp, muddy sketchbook. I picked it up, tracing the battered cover where the name Anna was scrawled messily.

Flipping through, I recognized her style—doodles of the other women, a funny caricature of Julia with a smile bigger than her head and serious eyes. Anna had shown me this just days before she left.

I sat down, flipping the pages, nausea swelling inside me like a tidal wave threatening to crash. This was her most prized possession—always cradled in her hands, manically sketching or stuffed in her pocket. She never would have deliberately left it behind. It didn’t make sense.

Clothes and things, sure—they were in a rush and said they’d deliver her stuff later. But this? No. It felt wrong, like missing a step in the dark and your stomach is still floating, waiting for you to catch up.

I looked up, watching the path snake forward to the large wrought-iron door of the greenhouse—the orchard. Julia had said Anna was working at Grove 9, and I’d seen gardeners taking crates marked “Grove 9” there. And now this, leading straight to the orchard.

Breaking the rules isn’t in my nature. I’ve always done as I was told, toed the line, been a good girl. I’ve learned my lessons, tried to learn them fast. But these strange coincidences set my teeth on edge, make my heart race a little faster. It feels like Anna hasn’t really left. I need to make sure.

April 12th

I woke up in a sheen of sweat—not in my bed.

That dream again. Roots growing up from the ground, writhing like live snakes, tangling around my ankles. Anna’s scream echoing from the dark, damp place we were trapped in. A tree silhouetted in shadows before me, moving almost human-like, its branches reaching out.

Jesus.

I was outside. The cool morning breeze flicked against my clammy skin.

Where was I? Had I been sleepwalking? I don’t think I’ve ever done that before. But there I was—in my pajamas—sitting in a fresh pile of soil just outside the greenhouse. My fingers and nails were covered in dirt like I’d been clawing my way in.

I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself.

I ran back inside and showered the evidence of the outside world from my skin.

At work, I moved in a daze. That safety I felt when I first arrived was slipping away like water through fingers. And that small voice—the one that warned me about the serpent and the apple—whispered in my mind, mocking:

Told you so.

Getting ready to leave, I passed Julia, her head close to one of the gardeners, muttering hurriedly,

“Grove 9 is in a very delicate stage of the process. There can be no fuck ups. No loose ends.”

There it was again. Grove 9.

It must be here—not at some distant branch, like Julia said before.

Someone’s lying.

And I need to know who.

April 13th

Another dream. Another cry for help from Anna in the darkness.

This time, I managed to pull my legs free from the grasping roots and wade through them, closer to the tree. It groaned and wailed in deep despair, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. I reached out toward the arching branches—fingers brushing bark that felt more like skin—before I snapped awake.

Once again, I was outside. In the gardens of Mothersgrove. Sitting in the soil outside the greenhouse. My hands caked in fresh, wet dirt.

I scrubbed my fingers raw under the tap, guilt lodged deep beneath the skin. The pink, flayed look of my knuckles made the antibacterial gel sting as I got ready for work.

But I had decided: I need answers. There had to be some rational explanation for all this—something I was missing. Something being kept from me.

I threw on my uniform, pulled the hair net over my head, washed again, and stepped into line.

The fruit felt... wrong.

Most of them today had oddly fetal shapes. Limp, curled forms. Some had strange appendages dangling from the stems. A few gave off a sickly rot-smell from soft, dark spots on their surface. I wanted to gag. I wanted to throw them away, scream, run—but instead I just kept sorting. Kept my head down. Kept my mouth shut.

At lunch, I made the decision to try Julia.

I approached her in the break room, her smile already set in place—too wide, too bright, like a mask.

“How can I help you?” she asked in that honeyed voice.

I asked her about Grove 9. I said I wanted to write to Anna, to keep in touch. Just an address. Something small.

I used to live with someone whose rage came in tides. I know the signs. The twitch behind the eye. The heat that tightens every word like a noose.

I watched the vein pulse in her temple. Her smile clenched tighter, teeth grit behind it like stone under pressure. Her knuckles whitened where they clutched the clipboard.

She didn’t answer right away.

But I think I touched something she didn’t want touched.

And I don’t think she’s going to forget it.

Her smile thinned, but her voice was thick and syrupy sweet.

“I would strongly advise against asking further questions about Grove 9.”

She leaned in slightly, clipboard pressed tight to her chest.

“Curiosity is a wonderful trait in moderation. But too much of it? It spoils the fruit.”

Then she gave a cheerful little laugh, like she hadn’t just said something terrifying, and turned away to mark numbers on the boards behind her.

My legs felt like jelly, barely able to hold me as I rushed out of the room, thankful for the cold air of the gardens. My head was spinning. I know I’m not imagining things — something is very wrong with this place.

As I looked around the garden I had once thought was Eden, all I saw were rotten crops and trees standing still as sentinels, watching.

I need to figure out how to get into the orchard.

I’ll watch. I’ll wait.

And I just hope I won’t be too late.