Sitting on the moss-covered bench, I ran my fingers over the carving of my father's name. The letters were uneven, as if etched hurriedly or by someone inexperienced. They felt old, weathered by time, yet their presence felt immediate, as though my father's hand had just left them.
The forest around me seemed to hum, a quiet symphony of rustling leaves and distant bird calls. But beneath those natural sounds was something more—a tension, like the pause before a storm.
I sat there for what felt like hours, trying to piece together the significance of this place. My memories of coming here as a child were hazy, blurred by time and the weight of other events. But this carving tied my father to this bench, to this moment.
I couldn't shake the feeling that he had left it for me to find.
That evening, I returned home, the photograph still in my pocket and my thoughts tangled. My mother was in the kitchen, humming a tune I didn't recognize as she prepared dinner.
"Did you have a good day?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
I hesitated before responding. "Yeah, I… I went to the forest by Lake Hollow."
Her hands stilled, and she turned to face me fully. "The forest?"
I nodded. "I found something there. A bench with Dad's name carved into it."
Her face softened, but her eyes carried a weight I couldn't decipher. "Your father loved that place," she said, her voice quiet. "He used to go there alone sometimes, especially when things were difficult. I think it was his way of finding peace."
"Did he ever tell you about the bench?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No, but it doesn't surprise me. Your father always left little marks of himself wherever he went. He believed that places carried memories, that they could hold onto pieces of us."
Her words settled over me like a heavy blanket.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about the carving, about the forest, about the man my father had been. He had always seemed larger than life to me, a source of strength and wisdom. But the bench and its hidden message hinted at a side of him I had never known—a quiet, introspective side that sought connection with the world in ways I was only beginning to understand.
I pulled out my sketchbook and began to draw, letting my thoughts guide the pencil.
First, I sketched the bench, its surface rough and uneven. Then I added the forest around it, the trees bending inward as if protecting the space. Finally, I drew a figure sitting on the bench—not my father, but someone else.
It was me.
The next day, I went back to the forest. I couldn't explain why, but something about that place called to me.
This time, I came prepared. I brought my sketchbook, a flashlight, and a small knife, just in case.
The forest felt different now—not as intimidating, but still heavy with mystery. As I retraced my steps to the bench, I noticed things I hadn't before: faint trails leading off in different directions, unusual markings on the trees, and the way the sunlight barely pierced the canopy, leaving the ground in perpetual twilight.
When I reached the bench, I sat down and opened my sketchbook. I studied the carving again, running my fingers over the letters as if they might whisper their secrets.
Then I noticed something else.
Beneath the name "James," there was a faint, almost invisible mark. It looked like an arrow pointing toward the base of the tree behind the bench.
Curiosity flared in me. I got up and began inspecting the tree. At first, I saw nothing unusual—just bark and moss. But as I knelt closer, I noticed a hollow near the roots, partially concealed by a cluster of leaves.
Reaching in, I felt something cold and metallic.
I pulled it out slowly, my heart pounding.
It was a small tin box, rusted and dented but intact.
My hands shook as I opened it. Inside was a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age.
Unfolding it carefully, I saw my father's handwriting.
"To whoever finds this: Sometimes the answers we seek are hidden in the places we least expect. Trust the journey. —James."
The words hit me like a tidal wave. I stared at the note, trying to absorb its meaning. My father had left this message—not just for me, but for anyone who might stumble upon it.
But why?
And what answers had he been seeking?
As I sat there, holding the note, I felt a mix of emotions: confusion, grief, and a strange sense of connection. My father had left a trail, breadcrumbs leading somewhere.
I didn't know where they would take me, but for the first time, I felt ready to follow them.
.....
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