Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows novel Chapter 18

The new lingerie was still on the couch downstairs! Aunt Marie had said it needed a hand wash before I could wear it.

I slipped on my slippers and quietly made my way downstairs, planning to wash it that night.

The living room was bathed in a soft, warm glow from a small lamp. On the couch sat a man, half-hidden in the shadows. Thin trails of smoke curled from his slender fingers as he sat there, motionless, like a shell of a person being slowly consumed by the haze around him.

I stopped in my tracks.

Sensing my presence, he stubbed out his cigarette. “Hungry?” he asked.

I shook my head, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “No, I came to grab a little bag. I forgot to wash the clothes in it.”

“Oh, I washed them and hung them up to dry.”

Wait, what? I was surprised.

I glanced over at the balcony and saw them hanging neatly on the rack, still damp and wrinkled—definitely hand-washed.

A strange feeling washed over me. Why was he being so diligent, making me feel like a total slacker?

He patted the spot next to him, inviting me to sit down. “Can't they be hand-washed?” he asked, puzzled.

I rested my chin on my hand, nodding and then shaking my head. “Not exactly, but you're strong. I was worried you'd scrub them too hard and ruin them.”

He chuckled, “...I’ll be more careful next time.”

Back then, he saw me as a kid who hadn’t grown up, and I didn’t have much experience interacting with guys. He thought of me as a sister, and I saw him as my brother. Neither of us thought anything was off.

It was almost midnight when he urged me to go to bed.

Her slender figure spun, stepping forward, dancing to the chimes. Every move seemed to take all her strength. It was like her whole life and hopes were burning, and she was the moth drawn to the flame, gracefully and tragically surrendering herself to the fire.

The cold wind howled, and silence wrapped around us as Jonah and I sat by the door, quiet onlookers to this dance of life.

As the dance ended, she leaned back, as if hoping to fall into someone’s arms. But with hope came a crashing wave of disappointment and despair. There was nothing there to catch her, and she crumpled to the ground, pounding the earth in frustration, tears streaming down her face.

“Why don’t you ever come back to see me? I’m afraid of ghosts, but I’m not afraid of you. They all pick on me when you’re not here.”

I wanted to go and comfort her, but a strong hand beside me held me back. His voice, low and weary, said, “If you go, she won’t wake up.”

Suffering touches everyone similarly, but each person navigates the river of pain in their own way. Some get lost in it, never waking up, while others pack their bags and walk on alone.

Letting go is something we all have to face at some point in life.