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The girl in the photo on her wall blinked.&nbsp; Alice, hunched over a lukewarm mug of herbal tea, blinked too, a slow, disbelieving double-take. It was late, past midnight, and the only light in her bedroom came from a desk lamp creating a softened glow on her workbook.&nbsp;&nbsp;She rubbed her eyes. The grit from inside her eyelids scratching as she did it more vigorously. This was a combination of too many late nights, too much caffeine and the stress of her assignments.&nbsp; 	She must be hallucinating.&nbsp; 	The photo was old, sepia toned, fading at the edges. The girl in it was her late grandmother, Elizabeth around the same age as Alice. Elizabeth, with her bright eyes and mischievous smirk was stood by a blossoming apple tree. There was a basket of apples at her feet.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	This was Alice’s favourite picture of her. She had found it hidden behind the seam of the floral wallpaper when she’d moved into this room last year.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	A link to her past she only knew through stories told by her mother and father. A woman who it seemed still held the family together, despite no longer being here.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	Alice had taped it to the wall above her desk, like a guardian guiding her through the anxieties of life.&nbsp;&nbsp;	Staring hard at the picture, she was desperate for it to be motionless. To prove that her tiredness was playing tricks on her. Elizabeth’s eyes were still, fixed on a point beyond the frame. Alice sighed with relief and reached for her tea.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	Then, it happened again.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	This time wasn’t the same. It wasn’t just a blink. The corners of Elizabeth’s mouth, which were already upturned in that recognisable smirk, deepened enough for her to realise it had changed. Her eyes held Alice’s stare with intensity, she didn’t want to look away. A shiver, not of fear but peculiarity, traced itself down Alice’s spine.&nbsp; 	Slowly, she pushed her chair back, it scraped along the laminate flooring. Her mug of half-drunk tea clinked against the plate left on there from last night's dinner as she placed it down. She stood, taking an unsettled step closer towards the photo.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	“Grandma?” she whispered, her voice filling the&nbsp;quiet room. She felt foolish talking to a photograph.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	The girl in the photo didn’t speak. Her lips didn’t move, at all. The expression in her eyes was unmistakeable. A gleam of sympathy, where her eyes looked on Alice longingly. Then something else – a gentle nudge. It was as if she were trying to get a message across, but without words.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;	Alice reached out her trembling finger, hovering just centimetres from the aged, wrinkling paper. A faint warmth came from the photograph, a warmth that she could feel inside of her as if it had seeped into her skin. It chased away the chill of the late night, just like a mouthful of her warm cup of tea would.&nbsp;&nbsp;	“What… what is it?” Alice whispered again, as quietly as she had before. Her upcoming presentation for her history assignment felt like a lead weight pressing on her chest. She’d been staring at the same paragraph in her book for an hour, the words blurring together into a meaningless mess. Every part of her screamed inadequacy.&nbsp; 	Elizabeth tilted her head, just a little. A movement so subtle, yet completely clear. Her eyes shifted, not looking at Alice anymore, but through her. And in that moment, Alice felt something change inside of herself.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	She saw not an image but felt a feeling. The summer warmth on her skin, the scent of fresh-cut grass, the sound of Elizabeth’s laughing from the garden, strong and unburdened. And then, a quiet knowing, a deep confidence that settled into Alice’s own chest, pushing back against the stress and anxiety collecting over the last few weeks.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	It wasn’t a sudden discovery that solved her academic worries. It was something much greater and more fundamental than that. A reminder of her resilience and strength that ran through her own heritage.&nbsp; 	Elizabeth, young, cheeky and vibrant in the photo, wasn’t just a person she had never met; she was a living testament to the spirit that found its way through her descending family members, to Alice. Someone that found joy even in the simple act of gathering fallen apples into that basket.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	A woman that would have faced her own daunting tasks, her own moments of doubt. Yet she still chose to stand tall beside that blossom tree.&nbsp; 	The glow around the photo, not truly visible but evidently felt, began to fade. The mischievous smirk was just a smirk again, her expression frozen in time. Her eyes, which carried so much wisdom were now just ink on paper. It left Alice feeling both confused and invigorated.&nbsp; 	She stood there for a moment, in front of the photo. The only sound she could hear was the hum from the mini fridge under her desk. The weight on her chest had become lighter, not vanished, but altered. The words on her book still looked challenging, but they no longer felt unachievable.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	Alice sat back at her desk with a new purpose settling in her shoulders. She picked up her pen, twiddling it within her fingers. She looked at the photo one last time. Elizabeth’s eyes were still, but Alice knew, with a certainty that she had seen something real. Something positively reassuring.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	The assignment was still due, and her future still felt uncertain. The suffocating pressure had been lifted. She felt lighter, more grounded. The girl in the photo hadn’t just blinked and smirked. She had reminded Alice of the strength that she had. A strength cultivated by generations of women in her family who had all faced similar journeys. They had all, just like Elizabeth, emerged, like Elizabeth by her apple tree, with their baskets full of fruit.&nbsp;&nbsp; 	Alice took a deep breath and began to write.&nbsp;

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Cut from the same cloth

Wanderbloggs

Tracey O

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The apple doesn't fall far from the tree

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