[A Short Story from My Heart] The Last Apple
Young Choi, Professor of Regent University
The morning came slow over the valley, the kind of morning that seemed to hesitate before becoming daylight. A thin mist lay between the fields and the hills, and the earth itself looked as though it had not yet decided whether to wake.
Elliot stood by the old house.
It was not much of a house anymore—just wood, weather, and memory holding each other up. Behind it, the apple tree bent slightly to one side, as if time had leaned on it for too long.
His father had planted it when the land was still new to them.
Now there was only one apple left.
He had noticed it a week ago, but had not spoken of it. In this place, things were often understood better when they were not spoken.
His father used to say that words could sometimes disturb what silence had already arranged properly.
“Leave what can survive without your hands,” the old man had once told him.
Elliot had been young then. Young enough to believe that taking was the same as living.
The ladder was stored behind the shed, where tools were kept even when there was no longer much work to do. He carried it slowly, feeling its weight more in memory than in wood.
When he placed it against the tree, the branches did not protest. They simply accepted him, as the tree had always accepted everything—storms, birds, loss.
He began to climb.
Each step made the structure complain softly, like an old man clearing his throat before speaking.
Halfway up, he paused.
From there, the land looked smaller, not because it had changed, but because distance has a way of stripping meaning from things that once felt large.
The apple was closer now.
He could see it clearly—smaller than memory had made it, slightly uneven on one side, touched by time in a way that made it imperfect but honest.
He thought, briefly, that his father would have left it there without ever climbing.
Not because it was sacred.
But because it was enough to remain unseen.
A wind moved through the branches.
And in that movement, something in Elliot loosened—not suddenly, but like soil giving way after a long drought.
He understood then that the apple had never been the point.
It was only the shape that memory had taken when it refused to disappear.
His father’s voice came back, not as sound, but as weight.
Not everything must be taken.
Not everything belongs to the hand.
He stayed there for a long time, one hand on the ladder, the other resting on the bark, as if the tree itself might answer if he waited long enough.
But the tree did not answer.
It only held him, as it had always done.
When he finally climbed down, it was not with decision, but with surrender.
The ground felt heavier than before, as though it had been waiting for him to return with less than he had brought.
He did not look back immediately.
Only after several steps did he turn.
The apple was still there.
Still small.
Still untouched by his choice.
That night, the house was quiet in the way old houses become quiet—not empty, but remembering.
Elliot sat near the window, listening to the wind move through gaps in the wood. He thought of his father’s hands. Not the words, not the teachings, but the hands themselves—the way they held tools, soil, and absence with the same patience.
He slept without noticing when sleep arrived.
In the dream, his father stood not in the past, but in the same valley. The same light. The same silence.
He did not speak.
He did not need to.
He only looked at Elliot, as if to say that understanding had never required agreement.
The next morning came without ceremony.
The tree stood as it had always stood.
But the apple was gone.
Not taken.
Not stolen.
Simply no longer needed to remain.
Elliot stood beneath the branches for a long time.
And for the first time, he did not search for meaning in what was missing.
Only in what had stayed. +++
Prof. Dr. Young Choi — Regent University
Young Choi, PhD is a Professor at Regent University bringing a rare combination of technical expertise and creative spirit to everything he does. A scholar in cybersecurity, network management, and telecommunications, he has published 157 refereed articles, 13 book chapters, and a Cambridge Scholars Publishing volume on cybersecurity. Beyond the academy, Dr. Choi is a passionate poet, essayist, and wooden block engraving artist whose reflective writing invites readers to rediscover life’s beauty in quiet contemplation.