A pair of conjoined apricots grew on the supermarket shelf, one half bathed in the red of the setting sun, the other half a sleepy yellow. They huddled together, unwilling to separate, like two little suns stuck together by the wind. Behind the shelf, glass jars held simmered apricots, quietly gazing at the fresh fruit, as if reminiscing about their free, swollen summer days when they were still fruit. Touching them, the skin was covered with a thin layer of white mist, indistinguishable whether it was frost from the cold air or the fruit's secret thoughts. Everything in this world has a strange destiny; the apricots are in pairs, the juice has settled, even the fruity aroma on the shelf is entangled in an inseparable soft mist.