The night before my best friend disappeared, she shoved a crumpled five-dollar bill into my hand, acting strangely tense. I forgot about it — until she vanished the next morning.
For three weeks, fear and rumors consumed everything. Then I noticed faint writing on the edge of the bill: “Find the oak.”
I knew the tree — our hideout behind the abandoned observatory. When I went there, I found a note hidden in the bark. In rushed handwriting, she explained she’d overheard something dangerous and was hiding for her life. Her instructions were clear:
“Come at sunset on the first clear day.”
The next evening, I returned. After a long silence, our old whistle echoed from behind the observatory. She appeared — tired, thin, but alive.
She told me everything: the threat, the betrayal, why she ran. She used the bill because she knew I’d notice.
When she whispered she couldn’t stay alone anymore, I told her she didn’t have to.
Under the oak, as the stars came out, I promised I wouldn’t let her face any of it alone.
