Liam grunted. He wasn’t listening to the weather. He was listening to the silence. In summer, the valley hummed with cicadas and the distant drone of harvesters. Now, the only sound was the occasional thump of a fallen apple from the old, neglected tree near the shed—fruit too sour to eat, but which the cockatoos would strip bare by the weekend.
This was the season tourists never saw. They came for the "endless summer" of December or the "wildflower spring" of September. They didn't come for May, when the vineyards turned to skeletons of twisted grey vines, and the hills across the valley looked like they were wrapped in suede. season in may australia
Instead, he walked to the apple tree, picked one of the fallen, sour fruits, and bit into it. The tartness shocked his jaw—green, sharp, and tasting distinctly of the end. He smiled. Liam grunted