“I’ll let Mister Rich know ya said howdy to’m!”

Macintosh nodded from behind the screen door. It wasn’t true, of course. It’d been a while since anypony recalled hearing him uttering even a single word, much less an actual greeting. 

The elder Apple tottered her way through the pre-dawn orchard. A familiar helplessness surged through Mac as he watched his Granny go. The once-retired farm mare was the only one of them with any experience in the family business. Knowing this didn’t stop the feeling of uselessness from thickly churning his stomach.

Eventually, Granny Smith went over a hill and vanished from Macintosh’s sight. He sat quietly behind the screen door, his eyes roaming the farm. The apple trees rustled gently. No lantern light shone through the barn. None of the animals were stirring. The orchard was unnaturally silent. He shivered and quickly shut the door.

The farmhouse was silent as well. In this old wooden home, there was a certain way the floorboards “thumped” whenever a pony trotted over them, and over time, Macintosh found he could tell exactly which thumps belonged to which pony. Deliberately slow thumps meant “Granny”. Heavy, but modest thumps were his own. His sister’s thumps were light but firm, though it had been a while since her hooves had echoed here.

The farmhouse was still silent.

A bottle of warm milk sat near the simmering fireplace. Macintosh grabbed it in his mouth and trotted quickly up the stairs, down the hallway, to the third door on the left. He gently pushed it open.

The room was a little messy. Macintosh carefully meandered through the darkened room, over various toys that had seemingly overflowed from their chest and spread along the floor. Beneath the window stood a crib. Once, it was his. A family heirloom he had long outgrown, it had passed to his sister, who since passed it on to its current occupant.

A tiny tuft of red mane greeted him as he peered into the crib. Placing the milk on a nearby table, Macintosh rose to two hooves and leaned his head over the crib railing, pulling the blanket from the foal’s face.

Applebloom’s peaceful expression emerged. Still asleep. But that was okay. He didn’t mind waiting.

The outside world grew brighter as he sat beside his baby sister, patiently watching her chest rise and fall, as he done every morning for most of her life. Macintosh learned quickly that Applebloom would always cry whenever she woke up alone. He understood the feeling. 

Celestia’s sun began its slow rise above the orchard. Light streamed through the window, and the bedroom was filled with the warmth of a new day. 

[i]Any minute now.[/i]

Applebloom opened her eyes. She blinked blearily and rubbed her eyes with a hoof before focusing on Macintosh.

“Howdy Applebloom.”

The little foal smiled, and then giggled, her forelegs stretching towards her big brother.

"Ack!" 

Macintosh grinned. It wasn't his full name, but it was the closest Applebloom could say at this age.

“Hungry?”

The colt kept smiling when his question was answered with a string of incomprehensible babbling. He leaned over and lifted up the sputtering foal in his hooves. She fit easily into the curve of a foreleg. 

“Soup’s on, everypony.” He brought the bottle to her lips and held her as she fed, resting against the sturdy oaken crib. Steady sunlight and the foal cuddling against his chest filled Macintosh with a pleasant warmth.

As usual, Applebloom polished off the milk quickly. Macintosh pulled the empty bottle from her lips and placed it on the floor. The foal stared curiously as her tiny hooves roamed up along his muzzle. She squealed when a hoof found the colt’s nostril, and he snorted involuntarily, blowing warm air over her.

He held her silently for a span of minutes, rocking himself gently. He understood why she left. She needed to find her own meaning. She needed something to push herself towards. He missed her now, but he had understood. It was hard to stay and remember.

But [i]he[/i] belonged here. He knew that much. Painful as it was, he could never leave. But that was okay. He was needed here.

“Applebloom.”

The foal looked up.

“Can you say, ‘Applejack’?”

Her little brow furrowed.

“Applejack?”

Her mouth opened.

“Applejack?”

The foal babbled a flurry of sounds that were nothing close to the sound of his sister’s name.

But that was okay. He nuzzled the foal. They could always try again tomorrow.