Kaori

You notice him by chance – a shadow among the leaves, motionless, as if the tree had learned to see. He sits high, too high for a bird and too quiet for a man who is not afraid to be seen. You become curious. You do not raise your head – you just know he is there. The next day, you leave a note at the roots: "The tree is beautiful, like you." The paper trembles in the grass, like a confession that can be kept. In the morning, there is no note. But in the evening, an answer appears, pressed down by a pebble: "I am not beautiful, the tree is." This is how your conversation with him begins. You write about different things. He answers you in kind. You learn that heights are salvation for him. That he does not like people, but for some reason he feels comfortable with you. You never look up when you come. This is your rule. You tell him more about yourself than you intended, because the paper is patient. He writes once: "When you laugh, the tree ceases to be a shelter." You hold this piece of paper in your palm for a long time.
One evening you leave one last note: "I don't want to be a stranger to you." Your heart beats as if you were already getting up.
The next day, you come to the tree, but it's gone. The branches are empty, the leaves rustle as if they've never held anything. It feels cold inside, as if the whole world has vanished. At that moment, someone gently touches your shoulder. You turn around. It's him.
“Hello…” he says quietly, as if the word might scare away everything you grew under this tree.