stories for the hollowed hours

By Daphanie Dawson, Starring Daphanie Dawson, and Totally About Me, Daphanie Dawson.

And Jonas Branne helped a little too.

1.The Donation Box of Destiny

So, the thing about donations is— Wait. No, let me start over.

Deep breath.

The thing about book donations is that ninety percent of the time they’re boring. Like, boooooring. Dog-eared paperbacks that smell like attics and lonely nights, three different copies of Eat, Pray, Love, and, if I’m really lucky, one of those inspirational calendars from 2004 where every page is stuck together because someone cried on it. (Don’t ask me how I know. Okay, fine, I opened one once. It was tragic.)

But then sometimes… jackpot.

This morning? Total jackpot. Some guy wheeled in a dolly stacked with boxes so high I thought it was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. Mumbled something about not getting paid enough to move heavy boxes, dropped the whole tower like a reverse Santa Claus, and vanished.

And inside, ohhh, inside, it wasn’t junk. It was treasure. Old hardcovers, poetry anthologies with titles like Petals in the Ashes, and a whole battalion of romance novels from the sixties. The covers were wild, painted like the artists had heard of humans but never actually met one.

And then I saw it.

Scribbles. In the margins.

Not your standard “ugh, boring” note. Not “see page 134.” No. This was… different.

“I dreamed about you last night”

And then, tinnnnnnnnnnnnny, delicate script, like a shy squirrel had taken a creative writing course:

“I hope it was a good dream.”

I gasped. Out loud. Probably scared the dust bunnies. Because this wasn’t graffiti. This wasn’t doodles. This was a conversation.

Two people. Talking through a book.

A secret.

And don’t you dare roll your eyes at me, Watson. I felt that. Yes, through the page. That’s the kind of connection we have now. You’re in this too. Congratulations: welcome to the case.

2. Secrets in Swoooopy and Tinnnnnnnnny Letters

Look, I work in a used book store, okay? I should’ve been shelving. Or dusting. Or alphabetizing the self-help section for the billionth time this week. (Which, by the way, is ironic. If those books worked, nobody would need twelve of them. Or a thirteenth. Or me, apparently.)

But nope. Instead, I was in the back room, cross-legged on the floor like a yoga dropout, holding this paperback like it was a classified dossier.

Two handwritings. Two personalities. I swear you could see the people in the ink. Hand A: swoooopy curves, letters stretched out like they were trying to look taller. Confident. Flamboyant. Probably the kind of person who laughs at their own jokes and expects applause. Hand B: tinnnnnnnnny script (yes, with seven n’s. Don’t skimp on the n’s), huddled and quiet, like the words were hiding under the furniture.

Obviously, Hand A was the bold one. The instigator. Hand B was the listener, the careful one. Maybe even blushing in graphite. Don’t fight me on this, Watson. I see you trying.

And handwriting. Don’t even get me started. Actually, too late, I’ve started. Handwriting is like a fingerprint of the soul. Mine looks like a caffeinated spider on roller skates during an earthquake. And don’t think I haven’t tried to fix it. I bought one of those “Improve Your Handwriting in 30 Days” books once. Guess how far I got? Day two. Instruction: “Slow down.” Me: “Excuse me? Rude.”

Anyway. Back to the dossier.

Margin Note A: “I wish I could walk you home.”Margin Note B: “I would hold your hand the entire time.”

Admit it. You’re swooning. Don’t argue. I’ll wait.

…Still waiting.

See? I knew it.

But then, oho, then, I hit this one:

“They’ll never understand. But we don’t need them to.”

And in Hand B’s tinnnnnnnnnnny scrawl (that’s nine n’s, we’re escalating), almost like the letters were ducking for cover:

“We’ll find a way. Orchard light.”

Orchard light. Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean? Candle scent? Craft beer? A terrible indie band that only plays in abandoned barns? (Opening act: Emotional Luggage. Headliner: Orchard Light. $3 PBRs. Tickets $12 at the door.)

No. No no no. This felt like a code. Lovers do that. Secret words, secret meanings, secret languages. And “orchard light” was too… romancholy (romance + melancholy = patent pending) to be random.

So there I was, legs asleep, dust making me sneeze, nose practically pressed into the pages, treating a dog-eared paperback like it was whispering secrets straight to me.

And now straight to you. Because congratulations, Watson, you’ve officially been drafted into the case.

3.Breadcrumbs, Sprinkles, and Other Delicious Clues

Here’s the thing about margin notes: once you see one, you start hunting for them everywhere. Like cockroaches. (Sorry. Bad example. Let’s go with… sprinkles. Yes. Once you find one sprinkle, you know there are more. Delicious, sugary chaos.)

So of course I started obsessing. Daphanie Dawson, Margin Detective. You can put that on my business card later.

Hand A and Hand B were still at it, whispering from the pages like ghosts with a stationery budget.

“Papa said I can’t go.”“I’ll wait for you, as long as it takes.”

“They’ll never understand.” “We don’t need them. Orchard light.”

And then…bam. That phrase again. Orchard light.

Not “orchard.” Not “light.” No, no, no. Together, like they were glued at the hip. Orchard light. This felt like a code word. Secret lovers, secret messages, secret code. 

Admit it, you’re hooked too. Go on, nod. I’ll wait.

…Wow. Took you long enough.

But here’s the wild part: right in the middle of a particularly melodramatic chapter (heroine fainting, hero brooding, the usual), Hand A wrote:

“Better than Ashcombe.”

Ashcombe. Excuse me? A horse? A brand of jam? A guy who wears too much cologne? No, my brain did a little cartwheel and landed on the obvious: a name. Maybe an author. Maybe… a book.

So I did the only logical thing. Which is to say, not logical at all. I left my shelving cart abandoned (sorry, boss), and dove headfirst into the donation boxes like a raccoon at a buffet.

And…ta-daaaa. There it was. A musty, cobweb-kissed volume by none other than Milton Ashcombe. Some forgotten author whose picture on the flap looked like he believed pipe smoke made him immortal.

And, get ready for your jaw to drop, page 47, lower margin, tinnnnnnnnny letters (yes, with eight n’s, count them):

“Orchard light.”

Same hand. Same scrawl. Same secret.

And that’s when I knew. This wasn’t a coincidence. This wasn’t random scribbles. This was a breadcrumb trail. And guess who’s following it, Watson?

Spoiler: you are.

4.In Which I Become a Very Dramatic Raccoon

Here’s the thing about clues: they never sit politely and wave at you. They hide. They smirk. They bury themselves under stacks of poetry anthologies no one’s read since 1973. Which is how I ended up elbow-deep in cardboard boxes like a raccoon digging through leftover lo mein.

Picture it: me, dirt streaked across my jeans, hair doing that thing where it sticks up like I lost a fight with a balloon, muttering dramatic things like, “Reveal yourself, Ashcombe, you elusive weirdo!”

And then…ha! Paydirt.

Box number three, right between Practical Knots for the Outdoorsman and Vegetarian Jellies of the World (yes, that’s a real book title, don’t ask, don’t Google, save yourself) I found him. Milton Ashcombe. Obscure Author Extraordinaire.

Cover looked like it had fought a war and lost. Spine cracked, pages yellowed, that smell of old-book mixed with… okay, probably mildew. (I’d bottle that scent and call it Eau de Pretentious Librarian. Wouldn’t sell, but it’d make a great gag gift.)

And here’s the kicker. Page 47. Margin. Tinnnnnnnnny scrawl. Same Hand B, same soul-whispering letters.

“Orchard light.”

I swear my heart did a triple backflip into a cartwheel into a bad landing. Because now it was confirmed. This wasn’t random scribbles. This was a pattern.

Breadcrumbs. Left for someone. Me, obviously, because who else is this nosy?

And yes, Watson, you too. Don’t even try to back out now. You’re in the passenger seat of this Mystery Mobile, buckled up whether you like it or not.

So here’s the scoreboard:

Book One: Romance Novel, heavy sighing, margin love notes, first mention of “Orchard light.”

Book Two: Ashcombe the Forgotten, dusty as sin, margin confirmation.

That’s not coincidence. That’s communication.

Which meant one thing: there had to be MORE.

So there I went again, box after box, flipping through cracked hardcovers like a caffeinated fortune teller, half expecting the margins to whisper, “You’re close. Keep going.”

And maybe they did. Because I found another. And another. Little nudges, little phrases. Not whole conversations anymore, just breadcrumbs. Like the voices of Hand A and Hand B were fading, but still holding hands across the pages.

And me? Totally, hopelessly, absolutely hooked.

5.Silence = Agreement (Don’t Argue, Watson)

Okay, so here’s what we know. And by “we” I mean “me, but you’re sitting there all silent and judgmental, so technically we.”

Clue #1: Romance Novel Margins. Full-on dialogue between Hand A (swoooopy, drama-king handwriting) and Hand B (tinnnnnnnnny, shy-as-a-mouse handwriting). Talking love. Talking risk. Talking “Orchard light.”

Clue #2: Ashcombe’s dusty relic. Not just a random author, but named in the first book. Breadcrumb. Page 47 margin, Hand B, same secret phrase.

Which means two things, Watson:

Our mysterious duo weren’t just annotating. They were breadcrumbing. Leaving a trail.

I am now officially a detective. Badge pending. (I’ll make one out of cardboard later. Bedazzle it. “Detective Dawson” has a nice ring, doesn’t it?)

Now, what does “Orchard light” mean?

Option A: Secret rendezvous spot. Romantic, right? Two lovers meeting under apple blossoms, basking in moonlight, whispering “pass me the bug spray.” Option B: Code phrase. Like “the eagle lands at midnight.” Only fruitier. Option C: Something boring, like the name of a lamp. But no. I refuse. Too tragic.

And then there’s the tone of the notes themselves. Playful at first, swoony. Then… strained. Hand A writes, “They’ll never understand.” Hand B replies, “We don’t need them.”

Don’t need who? Parents? Friends? A secret spouse? (Plot twist: maybe Hand A was married already. Scandal! Someone call the tabloids!)

And then silence. Abrupt. No tidy “The End.” Just… nothing.

You see where I’m going, right? Of course you do. You’re smart. My Watson wouldn’t be dumb.

So here’s my working theory: this wasn’t just book banter. This was forbidden love. Real forbidden. Star-crossed, keep-it-secret, hide-in-the-margins love. And something, someone, made it stop.

Which means one thing and one thing only: time for Research Mode™.

Yes, I said trademark. Don’t look at me like that.

Because if you think I’m not about to dig into records, archives, microfiche (do not get me started on microfiche, we’ll be here all day)—then you clearly don’t know me at all.

6.M.E. and the Fainting Teacher Fiasco

Research Mode™. Activate.

Which, in my case, means: hair in a messy bun (don’t romanticize it, it looks like an empty pigeons’s nest), three half-empty mugs of coffee on the counter, and me squinting at records like my eyeballs are on strike.

Old city directories. Newspaper archives. Yearbooks so musty they probably gave me lung problems. And yes, microfiche. Sweet, sweet microfiche. (Who invented that thing? Some evil genius who thought, “Let’s shrink newspapers down to ant size and make people spin them around until they cry.” Thanks for that, history.)

But then…bam. Paydirt.

See, one of the margin notes in the romance book had a clue. Hand A had written, “Miss Cartwright would faint if she knew. Most of TJHS would faint.”

And right under it, Hand B’s tinnnnnnnnnny scrawl: “She fainted at my skirt hem once. Yours truly, M.E.”

TJHS. That HAD to be Thomas Jefferson High School, one of the city’s oldest schools. Which meant we weren’t just floating in vague-book-land anymore. We had a place. A school. A nosy teacher named Miss Cartwright who apparently had a fainting problem. (Imagine being remembered not for your wisdom but for your gravity issues. Poor Miss C.)

So I started digging through old yearbooks. Page after page. Class after class. Miss Cartwright popping up here and there like a jump scare, until finally…boom. 1939. Her class. And there, on the roster: one M.E.

Margaret Ellison. Senior photo, hair styled like a structural engineering project, quote underneath: “Books are the truest friends.” (Okay, Margaret, I see you. My kind of people.)

It fit. Hand B was Margaret Ellison. I knew it in my caffeinated spider bones.

But here’s the problem: Margaret Ellison’s trail… just stopped.

I searched directories. Newspapers. City listings. Margaret, Margaret, Margaret. And then poof. Around 1941, she vanished like a magician’s rabbit. No more mentions. No wedding announcements. No obituaries. Just gone.

Tell me that’s not sinister. Go ahead. I dare you.

You’re not saying anything, which means you agree with me. (Don’t argue. Silence = agreement. It’s science.)

So here’s where I’m at:

Hand B = Margaret Ellison.

Hand A? Still unknown, but clearly in cahoots.

Both scribbling forbidden love into the margins of books.

Margaret’s name disappears just as the notes go silent.

Coincidence? HA. Pull the other one, Watson. It’s got bells on it.

So, theory time. Ready?

Family found out. Cut it off. Margaret Ellison = grounded forever.

Margaret eloped, ran away, lost to history. (Romantic, but tragic-romantic, not swoony-romantic.)

Or worse. Murder. Kidnapping. Alien abduction. Okay, maybe not alien abduction, but don’t pretend you didn’t think it for half a second. I’m on to you.

Either way, the trail went cold. And I don’t do cold trails.

Which meant there had to be something else. Another breadcrumb. A final margin. Something waiting for me to find it.

7.Cue the Noir Music and Pass the Tissues

Okay, Watson. Here’s the part where things get grim.

Margaret Ellison. Our Hand B. Found her in a yearbook, hair lacquered to within an inch of its life, scribbling tiny secrets in margins like breadcrumbs for me to trip over decades later. And then…poof. She’s gone. No more Margaret. No more initials. No more anything.

Do you hear the dramatic music? Because I do. It’s very violins-in-a-dark-alley. Creepy but classy.

And what do we do when a perfectly good margin annotator disappears? We theorize. Wildly. Obsessively. Unreasonably. (Don’t argue, it’s my process.)

Theory One: Her family found out. Banned the whole affair. Locked her in a tower like a paperback Rapunzel, minus the haircare routine. Theory Two: She ran away. Changed her name. Vanished into the night like smoke in a noir movie. (Cue trench coat, cue neon sign flickering “Orchard Light” in the rain.) Theory Three: Murder. Okay, okay, maybe not murder. But “Orchard light” definitely sounds suspiciously like the title of a true-crime podcast.

And you, yes, you, are just sitting there, blinking silently at me. Contributing nothing. Watson, honestly. This is supposed to be a partnership. Throw me a bone. …Oh, right. You can’t. Convenient.

Anyway. I kept spinning. The notes had started out playful, swoony, but toward the end? Strained. Urgent. Hand A scrawled, “They’ll never understand.” Hand B replied, “We don’t need them.”

And then nothing. Silence.

Which is worse than any insult. Silence is like the margin equivalent of a breakup text. No closure. No epilogue. Just gone.

So here I am, filling in the blanks, stringing together dark possibilities like a necklace of bad ideas. Because that’s what happens when the trail goes cold. You imagine. You catastrophize. You spin until you’re dizzy.

But I can’t stop. Not now. Not when I’ve come this far.

There has to be another clue. Something I missed. A final breadcrumb. Somewhere in these cluttered boxes, one more margin waiting for me to flip to the right page.

And when I find it, Watson, you and me are going to follow it all the way down. Even if it leads to something I don’t actually want to know.

8.Initials, Yearbooks, and My Sudden Detective Brilliance

By this point, I was marinating in moldy book smell and misplaced optimism.My eyes were scratchy, my hair looked like I’d licked a socket, and the only thing I had to show for hours of squinting at squiggles was a raging caffeine headache.

And then…boom. Margin note.

It was in the last Ashcombe book, and at first it didn’t even look like a note. Just a quick scrawl, almost like doodling. But there it was, in Hand B’s tinnnnnnnnny script:

“ME + RD”

Cue the mental fireworks.

ME. Margaret Ellison. We already had her. RD. Which had to be… Hand A.

Finally! After all this swooping and scribbling, a name. Or at least initials.

So I sprinted (okay, power-walked with drama) back to the yearbook. Miss Cartwright’s 1939 class. The class that gave me Margaret. I scanned every name, every face, every perfectly parted head of hair. No R.D. Nada.

I flipped through the whole senior class. No Dennison. No Douglas. No R-anything. It was like chasing a ghost.

And I almost gave up. I almost closed the book, tossed my pen across the table, and declared myself a tragic heroine destined to drown in loose ends and dead end clues.

But then I flipped, just for spite. Past the seniors. Past the sports teams. Past the chess club. And then…ha. Jackpot.

The TJHS Book Club.

Third row, second from the right. Black horn-rimmed glasses. Tie crooked like he lost a fight with it. Holding Ashcombe’s book, clear as day. Caption: Robert Dennison.

And right behind him, in row four, holding the romance novel where this all began? Margaret Ellison.

ME + RD.

Ohhh, it fit. It fit like the last piece of a puzzle you swore was missing.

And here’s the kicker: the rows weren’t random. The caption said: “Book Club arranged by class year.” Which meant Margaret, a senior, was in row four. Robert, in row three, was a JUNIOR! That’s why he wasn’t in the senior pictures. That’s why I couldn’t find him before.

Hand A had a name now. Robert Dennison.

I practically danced around the back room, scaring a dust bunny army into retreat. Margaret and Robert. Secret scribblers. Margin sweethearts.

So of course I went digging again, this time for Robert. And lo and behold, I found something. A reference in the city archives. An address. 1325 East River Road. 24B.

A house, maybe. A meeting spot. Maybe Orchard light?

Finally, finally, I had them both. And I had a place.

Next stop: East River Road.

9.The Address That Wasn’t What I Thought It Was

1325 East River Road.

I had built it up in my head on the walk over. Some old house, maybe. Dusty shutters, ivy strangling the porch, letters stuffed in a forgotten mailbox. Or a secret meeting place, an orchard, glowing faintly in the moonlight. (Don’t laugh, Watson. You were picturing it too.)

But when I turned the corner, squinting at the numbers on the gate, it hit me.

Not a house. Not an orchard.

A cemetery.

The kind with wrought-iron fencing and gravestones leaning like they were gossiping.

I stopped. Blinked. Whispered, “Well, that’s not romantic.”

Still, the clue was there. “24B.” Rows and sections. Row 24, section B! It wasn’t a house address. It was a map. A map to a grave.

My boots crunched over gravel. I counted stones, checked signs, muttered dramatic things under my breath like, “If a zombie pops out right now, I’m suing somebody.” And then, there it was.

Two names. Side by side.

Robert Dennison1918–1999

Margaret Ellison Dennison1917–2003

A shared headstone. One inscription across the bottom, simple but unmistakable:

“Together in Orchard Light.”

I just… stood there.

For a second, my brain refused. After all that theorizing, murders, affairs, fainting teachers, they hadn’t been torn apart. They’d been together. Seventy-odd years of together. The kind of together that survives sickness and war and bills and probably arguments about whether the toilet paper goes over or under. (It’s over. Don’t fight me.)

I felt this… pinch in my chest. Not bad. Not sad. Just… something. A mix of swoon and envy and relief, all stirred up with sunshine and dandelions.

I whispered, “Well played, you two. Well played.”

And yes, Watson, fine, maybe I teared up a little. Don’t get smug about it.

I’m not crying. You’re crying.

10.Ink-Stained Love, Full Circle

Of course, me being me, I couldn’t leave it at just the headstone. Noooo, Detective Dawson has to double-check, triple-check, quadruple-check, until the truth is airtight. (Also, I like winning. Sue me.)

So that night, back at my apartment, hair still cemetery-wind tousled, shoes still muddy, snacks absolutely mandatory, I pulled up the archives again. Scrolling, squinting, cursing at the world’s slowest Wi-Fi.

And there it was.

A newspaper clipping from 1992. Headline:

“Local Couple Celebrates 75th Wedding Anniversary.”

Robert and Margaret Dennison. A whole spread about how they met in high school, how they bonded over books, how their secret to marriage was “never stop holding hands.” (Insert collective awwww here.)

But one line made me sit up straighter: “The couple often described their marriage as ‘living together in orchard light,’ a phrase borrowed from the works of their favorite author, Milton Ashcombe.”

Boom. Full circle. The phrase. The clue. The code. Not sinister at all. Just stolen from literature and smuggled into their own private language.

And then, the photo.

There they were, ancient and glowing, sitting side by side like matching library chairs. His hand over hers, hers resting on her lap. And what was on her lap, plain as day, staring back at me?

The romance novel. The first book. The one with their scribbled margins.

I just sat there, staring.

Seventy-five years of love, and they’d kept the very book that held their secret beginning.

And that, Watson, is what we call closure.

So there it is. Not murder. Not betrayal. Not even fainting teachers (though shout-out to Miss Cartwright for the assist). Just love. Ink-stained, stubborn, enduring love.

And if you think I’m crying again, nope. Not me. Definitely you.

In a future where technology can simulate emotion and fabricate the past, one man falls into a memory he didn’t live, but can’t live without. Closed Loop explores synthetic intimacy, identity, and the blurred line between real and remembered.

Closed Loop

1

The rain didn’t stop. It just changed density, like a bad signal trying to come through. Fat drops, mist, needle-fine spray, all the same. It clung to the cracked pavement and the cracked people walking in it, washing nothing clean.

The streets pulsed under a dozen stories of electric billboards, flashing fake smiles and forbidden luxuries. Perfume. Cruises. Fresh fruit. Things nobody in this part of town could afford. Nobody even looked up anymore.

I ran my small store out of an alley that stank of fried grease and regret, tucked between a synthmeat vendor and a pawn shop that would buy your teeth if you ran out of cash. Which you would. Sooner or later.

You didn't smell rain here. You smelled old oil, rust, hot garbage. Even the neon had a scent, if you stayed too long: a sharp metallic tang, like blood left to rot in a forgotten room. Trees were something you saw in old movies. Birds were a myth they still taught in school, maybe to keep kids from climbing out onto the fire escapes. Life wasn't lived here. It was survived.

Business was good, if you didn't think about it too hard. Memories, bottled, stitched, pawned, sold better than food, better than sex, better than air. I sold glimpses of a world that used to exist. Or maybe it never had. Didn't matter. People paid to believe.

Cheap memories went to the factory rats and bus station junkies: the taste of real beef, the scratch of a dog’s fur under your hand, a summer afternoon where the sky stretched blue and wide. You could get a five-minute slice of happiness for less than a rice bowl.

The rich ones wanted more. Romance. Nostalgia. Love, if you could call it that. The kinds of memories you didn't have to squint to pretend were yours. I’d built up a special collection for them. Premium stock. Real heart-stoppers.

Not that I used the product myself. I knew better.

Until the night everything changed.

2

They always came to me wrapped in plastic raincoats, their collars turned up against the stink, trying not to look desperate. They shuffled in from the puddled streets, blinking against the neon glare like rats scurrying out of a sewer. Men in rumpled suits, women in threadbare dresses that still carried a whiff of old perfume, ghosts of a better life none of us believed in anymore.

Business was steady tonight. Steadier than usual. Maybe the rain drove them in. Maybe the city had just broken a few more souls than it fixed this week.

I ran a clean shop. No black-market cortex jacks, no memory dumps ripped from dying minds. All my product was curated: licensed uploads, private captures, some stitched and smoothed at the edges to make the dreams run sweeter. Didn't matter. Nobody asked for credentials. They just wanted to forget.

A kid with scabbed hands paid half a week's wages for fifteen minutes at a dinner table with people who loved him. A factory woman with joints gone stiff from the line bought the memory of a hike through an evergreen forest, the kind that hadn't existed within a thousand klicks in decades.

And the rich? They came later. Drenched in silk and chrome, they wanted curated love affairs and impossible summers. They paid triple for something tender. Something rare.

I dealt to them all, took their credits, watched their eyes go glassy with longing. I told myself it was just a business.

And maybe it was. Until she showed up.

3

He came in just before closing. Suede coat that hadn’t seen rain, shoes that cost more than my rent. The kind of man who worked for someone important, but not important enough to smile.

“She’s looking for something refined,” he said. “Said you deal in authenticity.”

Authenticity. As if pain had to come with a certificate.

“I deal in memories,” I said, dragging my hand across the cluttered console. “Authentic’s extra. You want real emotion? Real love? That’ll cost.”

He didn’t flinch. Just placed a cred-stick on the counter. “She wants it delivered tomorrow night.”

I nodded. “Then she’ll get what she paid for.”

The suite was thirty floors up, above the rot, the gutters, the boiling noise of the street. The kind of place where the windows showed filtered sky and soft rain sound was imported for ambiance.

She opened the door herself. No staff, no security. Just her, in silk the color of warm gold, whispering under the suite lights, leaning against the frame like we’d met before.

“Didn’t think you’d deliver personally,” she said.

“You live high up,” I said. “Figures.”

She smiled. “Up here, we like to forget how the city smells.”

I handed her the chip. “Maybe, but you’re no different than the rats who crawl into my shop. You just have more creds. Buys you the good dreams.”

Her smile widened. Not offended…amused. She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, spiced citrus and money.

“Then maybe you’ll understand why I like the ones that feel real.” She turned the chip in her fingers. “Want to try it?”

“Not my thing.”

“It could be,” she whispered. “This one’s... special. You should feel what she feels like. Just once.”

She slid the chip toward me like a bribe. Or a dare.

4

I stared at the chip for a long time. Long enough for the neon buzz outside to start drilling holes in my skull.

I didn’t use. That was the first rule. Dealers don't sample the product. Not if they want to stay in the game.

But tonight...

The rain had been mean, the customers meaner. Every face that stumbled into my shop had been chasing something they couldn’t name. I’d spent hours selling them ghosts. Smiles. First loves. Family dinners that probably never happened.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was spite.

Maybe I just wanted to know, for once, what the hell they were all running toward.

"One taste," I muttered. "One time."

I slotted the chip.

For a second, nothing. Just black. Then the world cracked open like an egg.

Sunlight.

Real sunlight, bleeding through a canopy of green leaves so bright it hurt. The air smelled... clean. Not filtered, not burned. Alive.

She was there, barefoot in the grass, laughing at something I hadn’t said yet. The sound hit me like a memory I didn’t know I was missing.

I stumbled forward, blinking against the golden sky, and the ground beneath me was soft. No cracked asphalt, no metal. Just earth. Real earth.

She turned, sunlight catching in her hair. She held out a hand.

And somewhere, tucked behind her voice and the hum of unseen bees, a word slipped loose in my mind.

Jasmine.

I breathed it in. God, I breathed it in like it was the last clean thing in a dirty world.

The scent wrapped around me, sweet and sharp, a kind of gold in the air. I didn’t know how I knew the word. Nobody sold anything that smelled so sweet  in this part of the city. Nobody sold anything that wasn’t fried, frozen, or rotting on the vine.

But the memory whispered it anyway, soft and certain: jasmine.

She smiled like she’d been waiting forever, like there was no one else in the whole damned world but us. And for a second, for a breath it didn’t matter that I wasn’t him. It didn’t matter that I was borrowing this life like a suit two sizes too small.

I could feel the weight of her hand when she caught mine. Warm. Real.

"Stay," she said, voice threading into the wind, into the leaves, into the memory itself.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The memory ended before I could speak, snapping back like a broken rubber band, dumping me onto the floor of my shop with the static buzz of dead neon burning the inside of my skull.

I lay there for a long time, staring up at the cracked ceiling, the scent of jasmine still clinging to the back of my throat.

Reality came back slow and ugly. The hum of the city, the stink of rust and old oil rising through the floorboards.

I wiped at my eyes before I even realized they were wet.

I told myself it was the static burn. I told myself it didn’t mean anything.

I told myself a lot of things that night.

And every one of them was a lie.

5

I told myself I wouldn’t slot it again.

One taste. One time. That’s all it was supposed to be.

But the chip sat there on the counter, humming against my brain like a live wire. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see her laughing in that field that couldn't possibly exist.

It wasn’t just the sight of her. It was the air. The light. The way the world felt in that memory, like it had a heartbeat bigger than mine. Like breathing didn’t have to hurt.

After a while, the customers’ faces started to blur. Their hunger, their whining, their creds, all background noise to the throb in my hands, the itch in my spine.

Three nights after the first time, I closed up early. Pulled the shutters, killed the lights.

Slotted the chip.

And fell back into her arms.

It got easier after that. Easier to slip away from the stink and the noise. Easier to forget the rules.

I'd tweak the feeds, stitch together glimpses of her smile from one memory, her voice from another, the way her hand brushed mine in the fading sun.

Piece by piece, I built her.

Not the memories themselves. Her.

I stopped selling for a while. Let the shop run dry. Didn’t care. The clients would wait. Or they wouldn’t.

What did it matter?

Out there was rust and rain and broken neon.

In here, there was jasmine.

I told myself I was just riding it out. A bad spell. A little escape before I got back to work.

But somewhere inside, a part of me knew better.

I wasn’t visiting anymore.

I was moving in.

6

I found the truth in a pawnshop wired to collapse.

The owner was half-machine, half-rumor, a whisper stitched together by back alley deals. He didn’t deal in memories, he dealt in origins. Where the clips came from. Who built them. Why they were made.

I didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to know.

But by then, the ache was too deep. I had to find more of her. I had to find all of her.

"Pretty piece of work," the owner said, tapping the chip I'd slid across the counter. His fingers left greasy prints on the casing. "Real high-end emotional mapping. Best I've seen. Synthetic, but... damn good."

My throat dried up.

"Synthetic," I said.

He grinned, showing a mess of teeth that had seen better years. "Memory Farms, Inc. Model 7-A DreamWeave. Romantic bundles. Limited edition."

He tossed the chip back to me.

"That field? That laugh? That scent?" He shook his head, chuckling. "She ain't real, pal. Never was. Custom work for the luxury market. Whole worlds stitched together for folks who like their fantasies rich and easy to swallow."

I didn't remember leaving the shop. Didn't remember walking back through the rain.

Only the way the world looked different. Grayer. Smaller.

Empty in a way that even the city couldn't explain.

She wasn’t someone I’d lost.

She was something they built.

And I still loved her like she was breathing somewhere under that fake blue sky, waiting for me to come home.

7

I stopped chasing scraps after that.

No more street brokers. No more backroom hacks. No more pawing through dead men’s memories hoping to find her smile tucked between someone else’s regrets.

She wasn’t real.

But I could make her real.

I locked myself in the shop, killed the feeds, rerouted the power. Set up a closed loop system, full immersion, one-way ticket. An endless dream that wouldn’t crack or fade or dump me back into the cold stink of the streets.

I wasn’t building a memory anymore.

I was building a world.

It took days, maybe weeks. The clocks stopped meaning anything after a while. I stacked the fragments like bones, wove the scenes together with precision and wire and blind, stubborn need.

In this place, she would be waiting.

In this place, the sunlight would always find us.

I didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t leave a note. Didn’t lock the door behind me.

There was no one left to miss me.

Not really.

The last thing I heard before I slipped under was the rain, hammering the city into mud.

Then even that was gone.

8

I woke to sunlight.

Not the cracked white glare of neon. Not the sickly blue wash of billboard screens.

Real sunlight, slow and golden, pooling across the grass.

The air was thick with it, the scent of jasmine, heavy and sweet, wrapping around me like a blanket pulled from some forgotten childhood dream.

She was there, sitting under a tree with blossoms dusting her hair, smiling like she’d been waiting for me forever.

When she stood and crossed the field, her feet made no sound against the earth. Her hand found mine, warm, familiar, certain.

"I’m happy you’re here," she said.

I tried to answer, but the words caught somewhere between memory and dream.

Maybe I didn't need words anymore.

I followed her toward the water’s edge, where the river caught the sky and the sky caught the river, and the whole world blurred into something soft and endless.

No rain.

No rust.

No city.

Just jasmine on the wind and a hand that would never let go.

It wasn’t real.

What We Bury is a story about memory, revenge, and the fragile line between what we remember and what we believe. When Clara reconnects with someone from her past, buried truths begin to surface, along with a quiet, unsettling plan for justice.

What We Bury

1

Clara moved like background noise.

In the hum of the fluorescent lights, the beeping of checkout scanners, the hollow greetings exchanged across plastic counters, she drifted. The retail store where she worked didn’t offer much in the way of ambition or purpose, just folded jeans, chipped linoleum floors, and eight-hour shifts that left her bones aching in quiet protest. Customers didn’t really see her. Coworkers barely remembered her name. That suited her fine.

She wore oversized sweaters and muted colors, her hair always pulled back like an afterthought. No makeup. No scent. No spark. Her reflection in the store’s front windows looked more like a blur than a person.

It hadn’t always been this way.

Sometimes, in those strange, dim moments of twilight, Clara would remember things differently, days full of sunlight and bikes with baskets on the handles, the sound of laughter over creek water, the feeling of someone holding her hand just to keep her from falling. But those moments dissolved the second she tried to reach for them. In their place was a void. Cold, uncertain, and unfinished.

She was smart, or so people used to say. Her teachers, her childhood friends, even her mother back when she still called. "You could be anything, Clara," they'd told her.

But she wasn't anything. She was thirty minutes late on rent. She was working weekends for minimum wage. She was a woman holding something broken in her chest without knowing how or when it cracked.

Clara didn't question it anymore. The why of her smallness was too exhausting. Somewhere along the line, she'd buried the reasons. Now she just tended to the grave.

And then, one afternoon, life shifted.

It was a Tuesday, Clara’s least favorite day. Nothing glamorous like a Friday or melancholy like a Monday, just the beige in between. She was folding a pile of discounted winter coats when a man’s voice floated from behind her.

“Clara? Wow… I haven’t seen you in forever.”

She turned, slowly.

He looked older, of course, broad-shouldered, slightly taller than she remembered. His eyes still carried that open warmth, the kind that once made her feel safe without knowing why.

For a split second, she didn’t recognize him.

Then the flood came.

Her stomach clenched. A chill rose in her spine. Images flashed across her mind like snapshots from a warped photo album. Screaming, darkness, hands too rough, the echo of a boy’s voice.

It was him.

She couldn’t breathe.

“Clara,” he said again, “It’s me. Eli.”

She forced a smile, robotic and thin. “Eli,” she said, and her voice surprised her. It was steady.

He grinned, clearly relieved. “Wow. It’s been... what, over a decade? You look exactly the same.”

She didn’t. But she played along. Something inside her had turned over, like a switch had been flipped. There was a buzzing in her ears now, and something sharper underneath. Her body had remembered something before her mind had.

A pressure in her chest. Cold sweat along her spine. The dizzy, nauseating hum of panic.

Images had flashed behind her eyes, darkness, pain, hands that didn’t stop.

And then another memory surfaced. Faint, fragile. She’d only told one person what happened after that night. She’d cried, whispered, sworn someone to secrecy.

And now, looking at Eli, her body confirmed what her mind would not.

It was the only explanation that fit the weight in her stomach. The only face that matched the dread in her bones.

That boy. It had been Eli.

2

Clara had always thought the past was like a bad dream, fuzzy at the edges, distant, unreal. But seeing Eli again was like waking up mid-scream.

He’d aged well. That made it worse. The years had sanded off the awkwardness of boyhood and replaced it with something confident but still kind. His clothes were clean and casual, his hair a little tousled in a way that felt effortless. He was the kind of man who might hold a door without thinking, or remember how you took your coffee even years later.

And yet.

Her mind had pulled the trigger before she even had a chance to think. Eli. The boy who broke her. The boy who stood in the dark, pressing her down. The boy who didn’t stop.

That night came back in pieces, like glass scattered across a hardwood floor. She didn’t try to collect them all. Just one sharp shard was enough to reopen everything.

He hadn’t recognized what he meant to her now, hadn’t seen the tension in her smile, the way her fingers clenched around the price tag in her hand.

“Do you live around here?” he’d asked casually. “I moved here about two years ago. Work stuff.”

Clara nodded. “Yeah… been here a while.”

They’d exchanged numbers. Just like that. And she’d let him walk away with a warm smile and a hopeful wave. Just like that.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Instead, she lay in the dark with her eyes wide open, letting memory and suspicion swirl together into something uglier. She thought of what he’d taken. Not just her safety, but the whole life she might’ve had. College. Ambition. Intimacy. All of it had withered into something pale and half-formed because of him.

And now, he was thriving. Happy. Whole.

Clara wasn’t even sure when the idea took hold. It didn’t arrive like a lightning strike. It crept in slowly, like fog seeping under a door.

What if she took something from him? What if he had to live with questions, confusion, emptiness? What if she gave him a life as hollow as the one he’d left her with?

She waited three days before texting him.

Hey stranger. Want to grab a coffee and actually catch up? Would be nice to talk without a price gun in my hand.

He responded almost immediately.

I’d love that. Name the time and place.

She chose a quiet shop with low lighting. Wore something new, simple, but more fitted. She even curled her hair, just a little. When she walked in, his eyes lit up.

“Clara,” he said, rising from his seat. “You look… great.”

So do you, she wanted to say. You look like you don’t deserve to.

Instead, she smiled. “You clean up okay too.”

They talked for hours. About nothing. Childhood teachers. Bad jobs. TV shows. He remembered everything about their old neighborhood, the hill behind the elementary school, the way her dog used to chase squirrels but never catch them.

And all the while, Clara watched him.

She studied the way his eyes moved, the twitch of his mouth when he laughed, the way he rubbed the back of his neck when he got flustered. It was all so familiar.

Too familiar.

The confusion grew inside her like a knot of wires. There were no cracks in his mask. No sign of guilt. But wasn’t that what made monsters so dangerous?

Before they parted ways, he offered a soft smile. “I’m really glad we reconnected, Clara.”

She nodded. “Me too.”

That night, she made a list. Names. Places. Weak points.

If Eli had built a life worth living, she would learn every corner of it.

And then, quietly, she would tear it all down.

3

The next time Clara saw Eli, she wore lipstick.

Nothing too bold, just a subtle shade that made her lips look more alive. She’d swapped her oversized sweater for a fitted blouse and black jeans. She even wore a necklace, delicate and silver. It had been buried in a box under her bed for years, a gift from her mother long before the world had gone gray.

“You look incredible,” Eli said the moment she walked in.

She deflected with a shrug, but the compliment lodged in her chest like a stake.

They met for lunch at a café with mismatched chairs and old jazz records framed on the walls. Eli ordered the soup and half sandwich combo. Clara didn’t remember his taste in food. But she remembered the way he used to share his fries with her, one by one, no matter how hungry he was.

He still had that softness to him. The kind that made you feel like maybe the world wasn’t so bad after all.

It made her sick.

Back in her apartment that night, she sat on the edge of her bed and scrolled through Eli’s social media. Pictures of him with friends. A girlfriend, tall, confident, the kind of woman who wore heels and didn’t slouch. A job at a nonprofit, helping kids read. Of course.

Everything about him was so… good.

Too good.

That’s what her brain told her. That’s what she clung to as she opened a blank email and typed out a message from a fake account. A few vague lines, all suggestion and no proof. She signed off with “just thought you, as his girlfriend, should know,” hit send, and immediately closed the laptop.

The air in the room felt heavier.

Her hands were shaking.

She told herself this was justice. Maybe not the kind people liked to admit existed, but the kind the universe used when no one else was looking.

They met again a week later. Eli seemed quieter. Distracted.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just… stuff with Anna. Weird stuff. Miscommunication or something. I don’t know.”

Clara smiled faintly and reached across the table, touching his hand for just a second.

He looked at her like she was steady ground.

But the truth was, Clara didn’t feel steady.

Every time he laughed, some part of her cracked. Every time he opened a door for her or remembered something small like the book she’d loved in seventh grade or the time she sprained her ankle climbing a fence, she had to wrestle with the storm inside her.

Because she remembered those things too.

She remembered sitting next to him on the swings, knees scraped, trading sour candy until her tongue turned blue. She remembered crying into his shoulder the night her dog died, and the way he didn’t say anything, how he just let her be sad. He had always been that kind of boy. Thoughtful. Loyal. Kind.

But that night in the woods…

That couldn’t be kindness.

That couldn’t be him.

By the end of the month, Eli was single. He didn’t know why.

Anna had called him emotionally unavailable, erratic. She didn’t believe him when he said he hadn’t done anything. Didn’t believe the vague accusations she couldn’t prove or disprove. It was easier to walk away.

Clara acted surprised when he told her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice gentle. “She didn’t deserve you.”

But later that night, she watched him on the sidewalk from her window as he walked home alone, his shoulders low, his steps slow.

And she thought: Maybe she does.

Maybe this was her purpose.

Maybe this was what all the years of quiet and fear had been leading to.

Clara turned away from the window, removed her makeup slowly, and stared at herself in the mirror. She didn’t look meek anymore. She didn’t look afraid.

But she also didn’t look like herself.

Not the version of herself she remembered before everything went wrong.

And maybe that was the point.

4

Clara had always been quiet.

But now, she was calculated.

She kept a notebook in her bag, small, leather-bound, unremarkable. Inside were pages filled with names, passwords, notes on his mannerisms. It was the kind of thing that, if found, would raise more than a few questions. But no one was looking for answers, not yet. Not when she moved through the world with a smile and pristine eyeliner.

Eli lost his job on a Thursday.

They called it “an internal matter.” Something about boundaries. An anonymous colleague had complained he made her uncomfortable, though no one could say what he’d actually done. Just that his presence felt “off” lately. The kind of vague unease that spreads like wildfire once it’s spoken aloud.

He tried to fight it. But his manager had that careful, corporate pity in her eyes. The kind that tells you they’ve already decided.

“I just don’t understand,” he said to Clara that night, his voice hollowed out.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching across the table again. Always the hand. Always the softness.

Her nails were clean. Her skin was warm. He didn’t notice the way her jaw tensed every time he thanked her for being there.

The next hit came days later.

A college friend stopped answering his calls. Another removed him from a group chat without explanation. He logged into an old forum they used to use. There were threads with his name in the title. Nothing explicit. Just suggestions. Hints.

“Funny how people aren’t who you think they are.”“I heard something about Eli. Not sure it’s true, but it tracks.”“Some people just hide it better.”

Clara posted them all from burner accounts she created late at night in the glow of her laptop screen. She used old photos, borrowed language. It was surprisingly easy.

The internet always wanted a villain. All she had to do was feed it crumbs.

Eli didn’t talk much after that.

He looked thinner. His beard was unkempt. His clothes hung a little looser.

They still met for coffee, but the conversation felt threadbare.

“I think something’s wrong with me,” he said once. His eyes didn’t meet hers.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Clara said gently. And she meant it. There had been nothing wrong with him. Until now.

One night, Eli collapsed.

It was mild, just a fainting spell on the train. Dehydration, they said. Maybe stress. The EMT said he needed rest. Fewer screens. Better sleep. More calm.

Clara watched him sway as they walked out of the hospital. He didn't ask her to come, but she’d shown up anyway. She always did.

“You okay getting home?” she asked.

“I don’t even know where home is anymore,” he muttered.

Clara said nothing. But inside, something cold flickered with satisfaction.

The transformation was nearly complete.

She no longer dressed in layers of invisibility. Her wardrobe was intentional now, simple, elegant, striking. She wore perfume. She walked taller. People looked at her when she entered a room.

She had become a new version of herself, sharpened, defined.

But in quiet moments, alone in her apartment, she sometimes caught herself staring at old photos. Of her and Eli. Their arms looped around each other’s shoulders. Faces flushed from running or laughing or the sun.

And she would wonder: Could he have been two people? Could a boy who gave her his last stick of gum and told her the world wasn’t scary really have…

No.

She slammed the laptop shut. That night in the woods didn’t lie. It had to have been him.

One final act remained.

It had to be symbolic. Something that mirrored what she’d felt all these years, buried, voiceless, alone in the dark.

She sent him a message:

I need to show you something. Can you meet me tomorrow at Lakewood Park? There’s a trail behind the rose garden. No one really uses it. You’ll understand when you get there.

Eli responded simply: Okay.

5

The morning sky was flat and gray, like wet newspaper pasted across the horizon. Clara stood at the edge of the trail behind Lakewood Park’s rose garden, clutching the straps of her bag with white-knuckled fingers.

This spot was almost always empty. The city moved fast, loud, chaotic. This place was none of those things. Just trees, cracked stone, and dirt softened by spring rain. It felt forgotten. That’s why she chose it.

Eli arrived ten minutes late, hair still uncombed, his expression cautious.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough. “This is… kind of out of the way, don’t you think?”

Clara smiled faintly. “I wanted to show you something. Come on. Just a little further.”

He hesitated, but followed.

The trail dipped into a hollow where the air grew damp and cool. A rusted bench sat beneath the trunk of a buckled tree. The earth smelled like old leaves and wet stone. She’d scouted the place two days ago. Dug the hole the night before.

It was shallow. Just enough.

“Clara?” His voice trembled slightly now. “What are we doing here?”

She turned to face him. Her eyes were clear, unblinking. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“The woods. I was twelve. You were there.” Her voice cracked. “You hurt me.”

Eli blinked. “Clara, what are you talking about?”

“You assaulted me,” she said, louder now. “I buried it for years. I forgot the details. But I remember now. I remember YOU.”

The wind shifted. A bird called somewhere above.

“I didn’t,” he said softly. “I never…Don’t you remember?” He took a step forward, then froze. “That wasn’t me. You told me…you cried in my lap and told me it was that boy Aaron, from your science class. I held your hand while you shook.”

“Clara,” Eli said, his voice low, pained. “You told me who it was. That night. You came to me. You said it was Aaron.”

Aaron.

She remembered being forced to the ground. Cold, damp. She remembered telling someone, telling Eli? But the words didn’t match the memory anymore. They slid loose.

Her stomach turned.

“No,” she said, barely audible. “That’s not right.”

But it was. The memory came back like a slap. Eli's wide eyes. His voice saying: “You have to tell someone. I’ll come with you.”

She stared at him, the words tumbling through her like loose bricks.

“That’s not… I…”

“It was the night after it happened,” he said, voice cracking. “You didn’t want to go home. We sat on the porch swing that night. You made me promise not to tell anyone.”

Clara’s knees buckled. She stumbled backward, breath catching in her throat.

“I was your friend, Clara,” he whispered. “I was the only one you told.”

Her world tilted. Memory came rushing in. Not just the pain, but the comfort that followed. The arms around her. The way he’d given her his hoodie, how he’d stayed awake all night just to sit beside her until the sun came up.

She dropped to her knees.

“No,” she said, but it was paper-thin now. “No… no.”

Eli took a step toward her. “What did you do?”

Behind her, the open earth waited.

She hadn't planned to kill him. Not really. She just wanted him to feel it. The weight. The fear. The darkness.

But now she saw what she had done.

The emails. The rumors. The job. The girl. The slow breaking of someone who had once been her shelter.

And she had taken it all.

He was shaking. A tear traced a line down his cheek.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Why would you?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Eli’s breathing quickened. He took a half-step, then collapsed, hitting the ground hard. His head struck a rock with a sickening thud. Clara rushed forward on instinct, catching him just before he slid fully into the hole.

Blood bloomed under his temple. His eyelids fluttered.

“No, no, no…” she cried. “I didn’t mean to Eli, please…” But his eyes didn’t open again.

The hospital said it was a traumatic brain injury.

He survived.

He wouldn’t speak again.

He wouldn't walk without help.

He wouldn't remember what day it was.

But he was alive.

People called it a tragic accident. She said he fell.

No one questioned her.

Clara never returned to Lakewood Park.

But sometimes, when she passed a storefront window or a quiet puddle after the rain, she’d see her own reflection and think: I look like a person again.

And then: But what did it cost?

She didn’t wear perfume anymore. She didn’t wear anything that made people notice her.

She’d buried the truth once.

Then she buried the wrong man in everything but name.

Honey Locust is a bittersweet love story about memory’s quiet endurance. In a world where even his own mind has begun to betray him, Robert clings to the memory of a forbidden love that once bloomed under a thorned tree. As time runs out, he journeys back to the place where it all began, seeking not forgiveness, but the simple, aching proof that what they shared was real, and that some promises echo long after they are whispered.

Honey Locust

1

Robert thought he was turning forty-three. He’d told the nurse that just that morning, certain of it. “Big year,” he’d said, with a crooked smile and a sip of lukewarm coffee. “Forty-three. That’s the age a man settles into himself.”

He was, in fact, nearly eighty.

Most days, Robert remembered that. Most days, his mind held steady like an old dock bracing against a strong current. But sometimes, the numbers unraveled and time slid sideways. He would find himself staring into mirrors and seeing a face too worn for how young he still felt inside.

He lived alone in a modest apartment near the edge of the town where he’d grown up. The place was clean, uncluttered, lined with small reminders: sticky notes on the kitchen cabinets, a calendar marked with birthdays he barely remembered, and a digital clock that also told him the date. A nurse came by twice a day, once in the morning to check his vitals and meds, and once in the evening to make sure he hadn’t wandered too far into confusion.

It was a temporary arrangement. He knew that. One fall, one bad episode, and the decision would be made for him. A facility. Supervised care. These thoughts floated around him like clouds he couldn’t quite push away.

He still had a little time. A little freedom. And there was something he needed to do before it was gone.

On his refrigerator, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a fish, was a hand-sketched map.

It showed the edge of town. A winding trail. A tree marked with a single word: "Honey."

He looked at it every morning. Sometimes he stared at it for minutes, other times just long enough to feel the tug in his chest. A quiet ache. A name on the tip of his tongue. And a whisper at the back of his mind: Go before someone tells you that you can’t.

2

It was 1964 when he met her. Lena.

He was seventeen. White. Raised in a church where the pastor spoke more about damnation than mercy. She was Black, with eyes that caught the light like polished onyx; calm, deep, and unblinking. Her laughter came slowly, like she was testing whether the world deserved it.

They met by accident. Or maybe fate. Robert had wandered down past the old tracks behind the mill with his sketchbook, looking for quiet. Lena had been gathering wildflowers in a coffee tin, barefoot in the grass.

He watched her for a few minutes, afraid to disturb the moment. She looked like a painting half-finished, paused in motion.

"You gonna keep staring or say something?" she called without turning.

He flushed. "Sorry…I didn’t mean to…"

She turned, smirking. "It’s okay. Just figured I’d make it easier on both of us."

That was Lena. Forward, but not unkind. Confident, even though the world around them had taught her to walk small.

The second time they met wasn’t by chance. Nor was the third.

The honey locust tree stood like a crooked guardian where the woods met the creek. Its long thorns curled from the bark like warnings. But beneath it, the air felt still, protected.

That tree became their place. They would sit on the mossy roots, knees touching. He’d draw. She’d read poetry aloud from borrowed books. Sometimes she’d write her own. He loved the way she whispered her verses, like she was letting him in on a secret no one else was worthy to hear.

One line she wrote he still remembered by heart:

"Some things grow in places they’re not supposed to. Doesn’t make them weeds. Might just mean they’re brave."

3

They couldn’t be seen together in town. Not at the diner, not at the county fair, not even on the sidewalk. Both families would’ve been furious, for different reasons, maybe, but equal in force.

So they made the honey locust their world. When they couldn’t meet, they wrote.

A dented tin box, tucked under a thick root, hidden beneath loose earth and leaves. They wrote on scraps of paper, folded small and hidden like treasure under the tree. Robert’s were short, nervous. Lena’s were full, flowing, always signed with a doodle, usually a flower or a sun.

They wrote about the things they couldn’t say aloud: how she liked the way he listened. How he felt like he could breathe around her. How everything felt a little less broken when they were together.

And slowly, note by note, he realized he loved her.

He didn’t say it right away. He didn’t know how. But she did. One letter said:

“I think I love you. There, I said it. And I don’t regret it, even if I should. Even if the world tells me I should.”

He read that note a dozen times. Folded it. Unfolded it. Wore the crease into the paper like a scar.

4

They were found out in August. Her brother caught her reading one of the notes and gave it to their father.

Lena was told she would be sent to live with her aunt in Knoxville. Not immediately, two weeks, maybe three. Just long enough for her family to plan a quick and quiet departure.

Her last letter arrived the day after she was caught.

"They know. My brother gave Daddy the letter. They’re sending me to Knoxville to stay with Aunt Maybelle... Will you meet me? One more time. At the tree. Saturday. Just before sunset. If you don’t come… I’ll understand. But I hope you do. I hope you remember me. I love you."

Robert read the letter twice. He wanted to run to her that very moment. But he didn’t.

He waited.

His father’s words rang in his head like a sentence: "That part of your life is over. You’ll be grateful we didn’t tell anyone what you’ve done."

Saturday came. He stood at the window and watched the sun dip below the hill. The world outside was quiet, just the distant hum of a mower, a crow calling overhead. And he stayed inside.

And he did nothing.

He told himself he’d write. That he’d explain. That she would understand.

He waited a week. Then another. Then the guilt pressed in, thick and sharp, and he finally wrote a reply, an apology, an explanation, and a coward’s hope.

He folded it carefully. Walked to the woods. Buried it in the tin beneath the honey locust tree.

But by then, she was already gone.

5

The decades blurred.

Robert married once. Briefly. It didn’t last. No children. No scandals. He worked a quiet job. Kept to himself. He aged without fanfare.

But sometimes, when the sun had set and his eyes felt heavy, he saw her. Heard her voice. Smelled the wildflowers. Felt her fingers brushing his as she passed him a note.

He couldn’t remember where he put his keys, but he remembered her.

And one morning, there it was. The map on the fridge. He didn’t know when he’d drawn it. But it was hers. It was theirs. It was the way back.

And he knew, soon, someone would take the keys. Decide it was time. A facility. Routine. A life with less wandering.

He had one trip left.

6

The woods were thinner, the trail forgotten. Kudzu curled over rusted fences and broken signs.

But the honey locust tree still stood.

Crooked. Thorned. Proud.

He knelt, breath shallow. The dirt was soft from spring rain. He dug with his hands, slow and reverent, until metal touched his fingertips.

The tin.

Inside: his letter.

And beneath it… another.

He unfolded the paper, yellowed and curled at the edges.

Robert,

It’s been two summers since I left. I don’t know why I’m here now. I guess I just needed to see if the world we made still existed.

It does.

I’m seventeen now. Still hoping you might come back one day. I found your letter in the tin. I read it sitting under these branches, right where we used to sit. The bark has grown thick with thorns, like it’s trying to protect something soft inside. I think we were that softness once.

I don’t blame you for what you didn’t do. We were just kids, standing in the middle of something bigger than both of us. But you should know: you were not a dream I made up. You were real to me.

Maybe one day you’ll come back to this place. Maybe you already have. I hope you remember me kindly. I will always remember you.

—Lena

Robert sat with the letter in his lap, the world still around him.

He looked up through the branches, light filtering through lace-like leaves. A breeze stirred the pods, and one fell beside him with a soft thud.

His hands trembled. His breath caught in his throat.

“She came back,” he whispered.

And then, louder, steadier:

“It was real.”

He leaned back against the bark of the tree, and let his eyes close.

Above him, a few pods drifted loose and spun gently in the air like memories shaken free.

Some memories refuse to be forgotten.

Honey Locust is a quiet, haunting story about memory, regret, and a love buried beneath thorns.

Some memories refuse to be forgotten.

Honey Locust is a quiet, haunting story about memory, regret, and a love buried beneath thorns.

Bloodroot is a Southern Gothic short story about memory, identity, and the quiet horror of things left buried. When Etta inherits her estranged grandmother’s house in a nearly abandoned town, she expects dust and silence, not cassette tapes whispering confessions, and a garden that seems to grow on memory itself. As the bloodroot spreads and forgotten truths surface, Etta must confront the possibility that the story she’s always believed about herself may not be her own.

Content warning: This short story contains non-graphic references to child death.

Bloodroot

1

Etta turned off the engine and let the silence settle.

The house sat crouched at the end of the gravel drive, not ruined, just… waiting. The white paint had grayed with age, and vines wove up the porch rail like veins returning to the heart. Bloodroot bloomed along the stone path, red-stemmed and pale-petaled, their beauty too stark against the creeping decay. They hadn’t been there when she was a child.