Apple Bloom slept soundly.
Applejack made sure of this. She always did.
The mare stood in the doorframe to the filly's room, gazing inward with a soft expression.
Starlight drifted across the slumbering pony's form. Every evening—without fail—the little crusader fell asleep at almost the same time. There was little to no fussing... no struggling to stay awake... no after-midnight hijinks. All things considered, Apple Bloom was a well-behaved soul.
In a way, Applejack thought, her family was lucky. It was one of many blessings that she had forgotten to count as of late.
With a soft breath, she turned about and shuffled down the hall. She was feeling sleepy herself, but there was a detour to make before retiring for the evening.
A candle burned gently at Applejack's bedside.
The mare had a large book in her grasp—the very same photo album that Apple Bloom was sharing with Fancy Pants earlier that afternoon.
Lying in bed against a stack of pillows, Applejack flipped through the pages. Amber candle-light fell across amber sheets of photo-paper, yellow'd with time. Familiar faces graced Applejack's eyes... the faces of ponies who—while not forgotten—had certainly dwindled a bit outside the penumbra of her everyday contemplation.
With one flip of the page, Applejack was staring at Aunt and Uncle Orange. She saw images from the inside of an apartment loft overlooking the lower riverside streets. Her memory tickled with the furniture and chandeliers, all carrying a thousand scents rising with phantom earnest to her aged nose. A bevy of mental images flittered through her mind—like photographs themselves, but no less dated and fragile.
She flipped towards the far end of the book. There, she found a gallery of images from a family reunion in Manehattan. It was then that Applejack remembered she hadn't made only one trip to that large maretropolis. Yes, there was the summer she spent with her Aunt and Uncle Orange...
But there was also a time when she went with her family. It was before Apple Bloom was born. It was before Applejack understood tenderness... and loss.
Balanced across a beautiful mare's flank was a tiny sprout of a freckled filly. Applejack was ashamed to admit that she only instantly recognized one of the souls in that photograph. With a sour lump in her throat, she flipped the page... and there were a dozen more pictures—most of them forgotten—featuring two young adults with a little colt and an infant filly under their wing. No doubt Granny Smith had taken most of the photographs. Applejack could tell; each picture was tilted slightly to the right, matching the permanent lean of the apple matriarch's head. But each frame managed to catch the smiling muzzles of two young parents madly in love... madly alive.
Applejack flipped a page again.
This time, it was a group photo... the group photo. Every Apple who had shown up to the Oranges' place in Manehattan were situated together for a massive photoshoot. Applejack recognized many ponies. She recognized herself. She recognized Granny Smith.
And the two who stood off to the left...
With the stallion nuzzling the mare and the mare frozen in mid-giggle...
...Applejack recognized them too.
And yet, she saw them in a brand new light... with a warmth that was becoming eerily recognizable with each passing day. A warmth that Applejack had tasted of... and yet was slipping away.
If only she could capture it in a jar.
Fumbling—somewhat trembling—Applejack slithered out of bed and made her way to the vanity. She came back, cradling a feather. Then—with a soft exhale—she lay sideways on the bed, caressing the feather while gazing at the photo... at the happy couple... at the love and joy that emanated from their yellow'd figures.
She didn't think of an alleyway in Canterlot.
She didn't think of Fancy Pants' charming voice while humoring Apple Bloom.
In fact, Applejack didn't truly think much at all.
She felt.
The softness and the warmth...
...the open vessel of life, waiting to be filled with mirth and sincerity...
...there was no telling where it would come from, or if it would even cascade at all, but the waiting... the yearning... the very precipice of hope for the unquenchable nebulous desire to be fulfilled...
...it sustained her. Much like large, loving forelimbs had once cradled her. Like she now cradled the feather.
There were tears, but she didn't mind. She was a fleeting feeling—a spark that flittered and danced just like the candlelight. She might as well have been crying on the inside.
At some point, she fell asleep. An unbreakable smile ferried her to morning.