The Roots Beneath Us
The search party had combed the woods for three days. Volunteers, dogs, drones — all scouring the dense thickets behind the old Saintfield farm where twelve-year-old Clara had vanished. Her last known location was the edge of the forest, near the twisted oak that locals called “the listening tree.” No one knew why. It had always been there, gnarled and leaning, as if eavesdropping on the wind.
Her mother, Elise, hadn’t slept. Her voice was hoarse from calling Clara’s name. Her hands trembled as she clutched the silver locket Clara never took off — a gift from her father, who had died two years earlier. Or so everyone believed.
On the fourth morning, just as the sun began to pierce the fog, a shout rang out from the ravine. A boy named Micah, no older than Clara, had spotted something pale beneath a fallen log. It was her — curled up, barefoot, her dress torn, her eyes wide and blinking against the light.
She was alive.
But she wouldn’t speak.
Not to the paramedics. Not to her mother. Not to the sheriff.
Only later, in the quiet of her hospital room, did Clara whisper the words that would unravel everything:
“Daddy found me.”
🌲 The Man in the Woods
At first, Elise thought Clara was confused. Trauma could do that — blur memory, conjure ghosts. But Clara was insistent. She described a man with a beard, wearing the same flannel shirt her father used to wear. He had led her through the woods, fed her berries, kept her warm with a blanket that smelled like cedar and tobacco.
“He sang the song,” Clara said. “The one he made up for me. About the stars and the foxes.”
Elise felt her stomach twist. That song had never been recorded. It was something only the three of them had shared — a lullaby invented on a camping trip, forgotten by everyone but Clara.
The sheriff reopened the case file. They exhumed old records, questioned neighbors, even reviewed the autopsy. But her father, Jonah, had died in a car accident. The body had been identified. The funeral had been held.
Still, Clara’s story didn’t waver.
“He said he had to go away,” she whispered. “But he came back because I called him.”
🕯️ Secrets in the Soil
Elise returned to the woods alone that evening, retracing Clara’s steps. She found the listening tree, its bark scarred with initials — some old, some fresh. Beneath it, half-buried in moss, was a rusted tin box. Inside: a photograph of Jonah holding baby Clara, a folded map, and a note.
“I had to disappear. I’m sorry. I never stopped watching.”
Elise dropped the box. Her breath caught in her throat. The handwriting was unmistakable.
Jonah had faked his death.
But why?
🔍 The Vanishing
Two years earlier, Jonah had been under investigation — quietly, discreetly. A whistleblower had accused him of embezzling funds from the environmental nonprofit he helped run. Elise had never known. The crash that supposedly killed him happened the day before he was scheduled to testify.
Now, it seemed, he had staged the accident. The body in the car had been burned beyond recognition. Dental records had been inconclusive. Everyone had accepted the story. Elise had grieved, buried him, moved on.
But Jonah hadn’t.
He had retreated to the woods — the same woods he had explored as a boy, the same woods he had taught Clara to love. He had built a hidden shelter, lived off the land, watched from afar.
Until Clara wandered too deep. Until she called out.
And he answered.
🧠 Memory and Myth
Clara’s account was vivid. She described the shelter — a hollowed-out tree, lined with blankets and books. She spoke of stories Jonah had told her, of drawings he had made, of promises whispered in the dark.
“He said he was sorry,” she told Elise. “He said he missed us.”
But when the search team returned to the site, it was gone. No shelter. No footprints. No trace.
Only the tin box remained.
Some believed Clara had imagined it. Others thought Jonah had fled again, deeper into the forest. A few whispered that he had never truly returned — that Clara had conjured him from memory, from longing, from the ache of absence.
But Elise knew better.
She remembered the song.
She remembered the scent.
She remembered the way Clara’s eyes lit up when she said, “He’s not gone.”
🧭 The Compass of Love
Weeks passed. Clara recovered. Elise kept the tin box hidden, unsure what to tell the world. The sheriff closed the case, citing “insufficient evidence.” The town moved on.
But every so often, Clara would ask to visit the listening tree. She would sit beneath its branches, eyes closed, humming the lullaby. Elise would watch from a distance, heart heavy, wondering if Jonah was still out there — watching, waiting, listening.
And sometimes, just as the wind shifted, she thought she heard it too.
The song.
Faint. Familiar.
A promise in the leaves.
