A Collection of Stories

Tree

"You don't smoke, do you child?"

I turned towards the frail woman latching the door. "No ma'am," I said, "I would never dream of it." The woman nodded and began her ascent up the stairs. The wooden boards creaked under my weight as I looked around at the suspended wisps of dust twirling and glittering in the still air.

We went up and up, past several murky windows aged with dust before we came to a stop at the top floor, in front of a blemished painted door. Ms Collins jangled her set of keys, rifling through the set before stopping at one, eyed the key and slotted it through the keyhole. The door pushed open to reveal a very modest room staged under the faintest glimmer of moonlight. "Best you catch a good night's rest before the sun rises. It is late after all. Do have a pleasant stay." She began to close the door when she opened it once more, "I'd nearly forgotten. Do remember to pay the rent for this month upfront. Goodnight, my dear."

I thanked Ms Collins and she shut the door behind her. Her slippered feet shuffled away and down the steps. Setting my bags down on the pristine floorboards, I spun around surveying the room. There was a large window across from me, with its view obscured by gauzy curtains.

There was a bed, with a neat set of shelves beside it. Above my head, the ceiling bent downward sharply. The room had a kitchen and a washroom, which was more than I could ask for with such cheap rent. Stifling a yawn, I convinced myself that I could wake early tomorrow before school started to get settled in. Flopping onto the bed, I sunk into the thick duvet, the claws of sleep pulling me down like quicksand.

I stretched as feline as a cat, my hands slipping deeper under the sheets, turning to find a more comfortable position when my hand brushed the edge of something thin. My eyes peeled back open, balancing on one arm, I reached forward to pull out a photograph from the pillows. Falling back onto the sheets, hair pooling around my head, I raised the picture to the moonlight.

My brows furrowed as I took in the photograph. There was a young man, set with tousled locks and gangly long arms that were slightly too long for his body as he held strong to the axe in hand. Neat piles of wood were stacked high beside him. He had just finished chopping through a chunk of wood and it had split right down its centre, with splinters flying and frozen in the photo.

There was a chicken coop behind with three lumps inside, which I presumed were eggs, and a bucket of water beside the man. Tall trees of dancing oak were framed behind the house in interweaving puzzles, reaching as far as the eye could see. What was most peculiar were his eyes and the smile framing his face. Though he looked like a person you would glance at in a busy street, just to be forgotten the next moment, they held weight like there were secrets straining to be unleashed.

An unnameable sense of thirst for change wrapped around my throat. Wouldn't it be nice to wake up to the smells and sounds of nature instead of the smoke and bustle of the industrialised city? I sighed, dropping my arm back onto the duvet.

The photo was well worn with age and the man must have been related to Ms Collin, a sibling of sorts. I would return it tomorrow. Ms Collins seemed like a woman who would willingly indulge in the retelling of many stories till time meant nothing to her, so perhaps she could share who the man was and what he did to quell the curiosity in me. I let out a breath of air, feeling the weight of the day collapse onto my chest. With the photo still clutched between my fingers, my eyelids drooped shut, sleep tugging me into warm darkness.

My eyes cracked open. For a moment, all I could see was a blinding white before my eyelids swept shut. The air was laden with an intoxicating smell of wood, it was rich and deep, the smell of earth and growth. Soft blades of sweet grass twitched under my palms. A gentle wind danced in wondrous twirls around me, caressing my cheeks with the lightest touch.