The night before my best friend, 16, vanished, she handed me $5 and said, “I owe you money. Take this bill!” It felt random, but I put it in my jar without looking twice. 3 weeks later, I suddenly remembered and opened the jar. I looked closely at the bill and froze: there was a small line of handwriting tucked into the white border near the portrait—so faint it looked like part of the texture. It wasn’t her usual bubbly script, but I recognized the way she wrote certain letters, sharp and hurried when she was anxious. The message was only three words: “Find the oak.” My breath caught. There was only one oak she ever talked about—the old tree behind the abandoned observatory where we used to sit during summer, watching bats flicker across the twilight sky. It was our secret spot. She hadn’t mentioned it in months, not since her parents’ arguing grew worse and she started withdrawing from everyone. Why would she hide a message in money? And why give it to me the night she vanished? Continue reading…
