Abby
The warm afternoon sunlight casts dappled patterns on the ground as we walk through the park, holding cardboard coffee cups in our hands. The warmth seeps through the cup, mingling with the crisp air. It’s a nice moment, bordering on something that feels almost normal.
And then we stop in front of it—the old oak tree.
Its massive trunk and sprawling branches are as iconic as they come. It’s always been a sort of landmark in this small town, here long before the town was ever built. But to me, it’s more than just a tree. It’s a bitter reminder of another life, of another version of us.
We took our wedding photos under this tree.
“Do you remember?” Karl asks, his eyes meeting mine as if he’s searching for something—recognition, perhaps.
“Of course I remember,” I snap, maybe a li
