The Tree by the River

When I was ten, there was a tree by the river that felt like mine alone. Not the tallest or the oldest tree in the world—just an ordinary one with wide branches that stretched out over the water, casting cool shadows on the rocky shore. It was my secret sanctuary, a place where the noise of the town faded and all I could hear was the gentle rush of the river beneath me and the occasional call of a distant bird.

I used to climb up its sturdy limbs, feeling the rough bark press against my palms, and settle into a nook where the leaves whispered stories when the wind blew. From up there, the world looked softer—like a watercolor painting blurring at the edges.

One summer afternoon, I discovered a small carved heart in the bark, just beside where I always sat. Inside the heart were two initials, worn by years of weather but still clear enough to read. I didn’t know who had made it, but for a moment, it felt like a secret meant just for me. I traced the letters gently with my fingers and wondered about the story behind them—maybe two kids like me, sharing a summer long ago.

That summer stretched on, full of light and warmth, but as the years passed, the visits grew fewer. Life pulled me away—school, new friends, the endless hum of growing up.

When I finally came back home as an adult, I walked to the riverbank, hoping to find the tree waiting for me. But it was gone—cut down, its stump still fresh, like an open wound in the earth. The river flowed on, indifferent and steady, but my quiet refuge was lost.

I knelt by the stump, running my hand over the rough, exposed wood. The carved heart was gone, swallowed by time and change. I felt a strange ache settle inside me—like the memory of something beautiful slipping away, fragile and fleeting.

Some places don’t last forever, but the way they made you feel—that lingers, tucked inside, like a soft echo you carry with you.