Beneath the sycamore

**1**

The first time Elias saw her, she was sitting beneath the old sycamore tree at the edge of the lake, the afternoon light catching strands of her auburn hair and turning them to copper. She had a book in her lap, but she wasn’t reading. Instead, she was tracing the veins of a fallen leaf with the tip of her finger, as if memorizing its pattern.

Elias hesitated. He liked this place because it was quiet, because no one else ever came here. But now she was here, and something about the way she looked at the leaf—like it held secrets only she could understand—made him stay.

He cleared his throat. She looked up, startled, her green eyes wide.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You didn’t.”

He nodded, unsure of what to say next. But instead of walking away, he sat down on the other side of the tree, close enough to hear the soft rustle of pages as she finally turned to her book.

They didn’t speak again that day. But when Elias left, he found himself hoping she would be there tomorrow.

**2**

She was.

And the next day. And the next.

They fell into something unspoken, a quiet understanding. They never planned to meet, but always did. She would bring her books, and he would bring his sketchpad. Some days, they would talk—about the stories she read, about the things he drew. Other days, they would simply exist in the same space, the silence between them comfortable and warm.

One afternoon, she leaned over to glance at his sketchpad. “You never show me what you’re drawing.”

Elias hesitated, then turned it toward her.

She blinked. “Oh.”

It was her, beneath the sycamore, the wind teasing her hair.

She reached out, tracing the lines with the same gentleness she had used on the leaf that first day. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

Elias swallowed, his throat tight. “It’s just a sketch.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s more than that.”

And when she smiled at him, something in his chest ached in a way that was both painful and perfect.

**3**

The seasons changed. The sycamore shed its leaves in a flurry of gold, then stood bare against a sky heavy with snow. Still, they met.

One evening, after the first snowfall, she arrived late, breathless, her cheeks pink from the cold. “I have something for you,” she said, reaching into her bag.

Elias raised an eyebrow. “For me?”

She nodded and pulled out a book—worn, its corners softened with age.

“It’s my favorite,” she said. “You should read it.”

He took it, surprised by the warmth of the pages as if they still held the heat of her hands.

That night, he stayed up late beneath the light of his bedside lamp, reading each word as if it had been written just for him.

**4**

Spring came, bringing the scent of new grass and the sound of birds returning home.

One afternoon, as she sat with her back to the tree, Elias hesitated before speaking. “I don’t know what I’d do if you stopped coming here.”

She looked up, something unreadable in her expression.

“I won’t,” she said, but there was a shadow behind her words.

Elias wanted to ask what she meant, but instead, he just nodded.

**5**

Summer arrived, and with it, a storm.

Elias waited beneath the sycamore, rain dripping from his hair, his clothes soaked through. But she never came.

The next day, she still wasn’t there.

Or the next.

The absence of her was a hollow thing, an echo in an empty room.

He went to the bookstore where she had once mentioned working, his heart pounding. The woman at the counter gave him a sad smile.

“She left,” she said. “Went to the city for school.”

Elias opened his mouth, then closed it.

She hadn’t told him.

She hadn’t even said goodbye.

**6**

The sycamore stood alone now, its branches stretching toward the sky as if searching for something lost.

Elias still came, though not as often. He brought his sketchpad, but the pages remained blank.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, he pulled the book she had given him from his bag. Inside, he found something he hadn’t noticed before—a slip of paper tucked between the pages.

A note.

**Elias,**

**I didn’t know how to say it out loud, so I wrote it here.**

**You make the world feel different, like a story I never want to end.**

**I hope you’ll forgive me for leaving. I hope you’ll keep drawing.**

**And I hope, more than anything, that one day, our paths will cross again.**

His fingers tightened around the paper.

The ache in his chest had never truly left.

And yet, as he looked up at the sycamore, at the place where they had once sat side by side, he realized something.

She had been right.

Some stories never really ended.

They just waited for the next chapter.

**7**

Years passed. The sycamore remained.

Elias moved to the city, though he never forgot the quiet sanctuary by the lake. He carried it with him—the afternoons spent beneath the branches, the sound of pages turning beside him, the warmth of a smile that had once felt like home.

He kept drawing. His sketchbook filled with images of faces he had never met, places he had never seen, but always, always, there was her. The memory of auburn hair catching the light, of green eyes tracing the world as if it held secrets only she could understand.

Some nights, he would take out the book she had given him, running his fingers over the worn cover, reading her note over and over again.

And he wondered.

Would their paths ever cross again?

**8**

It happened on an autumn afternoon, years later.

Elias had wandered into a bookstore on a quiet street, the scent of paper and ink wrapping around him like an old friend. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just passing time, like he often did.

Then he heard a voice. Familiar. Soft.

He turned.

She was there, standing at the counter, laughing at something the clerk had said. Her hair was a little shorter now, her frame a little taller, but the way she tilted her head, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—it was her.

His heart pounded.

For a moment, he hesitated. Would she remember? Would she still be the girl who once sat beneath the sycamore, tracing the veins of a leaf as if memorizing its story?

Then she turned.

Their eyes met.

And she smiled.

**9**

The coffee shop down the street was warm, filled with the hum of quiet conversations and the clinking of porcelain cups.

They sat across from each other, hands curled around mugs, the space between them filled with the weight of time and unspoken words.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again,” Elias admitted.

She looked down at her cup, then back at him. “I always hoped I would.”

He exhaled, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for years. “Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

She sighed. “Because I was scared. Leaving was hard enough—I didn’t think I could bear to say the words.”

Elias studied her, the girl who had once left without a word, the girl who had written him a note instead. And yet, here she was. Sitting across from him, real and present and here.

He reached into his bag and pulled out something small, something worn. The book she had given him, the pages softened by time and touch.

“I kept it,” he said.

She blinked, then smiled—a quiet, knowing smile. “I’m glad.”

Silence stretched between them, not empty, but full.

And Elias realized something.

Some stories don’t end.

Some stories find their way back.

Even after all this time, theirs was still being written.

**10**

A week later, they went back to the lake.

The sycamore stood just as they had left it, its branches swaying gently in the breeze.

They sat beneath it once more, like they had all those years ago.

She pulled out a book. He pulled out his sketchpad.

No words were needed.

Just the rustle of pages.

The scratch of pencil on paper.

And the quiet understanding that, this time, neither of them was going anywhere.