I felt an ache in my chest—fear, relief, confusion tangled together. She ended the message with instructions: “If you find this, don’t tell anyone yet. Come back at sunset on the first clear day.” My mind raced. That was tomorrow. I barely slept that night, imagining every possibility—maybe she was safe, maybe she needed help, maybe she regretted trusting me. Maybe the danger she mentioned was real. When the next evening came, the sky glowed amber, cloudless and calm, as though nature itself had aligned for her signal. I returned to the oak, heart thudding. For a moment, I thought I had imagined everything. Then a faint whistle drifted from behind the observatory—our childhood signal, the one we used when playing hide-and-seek.
She stepped out from the shadows, thinner, tired, but alive. Tears blurred my vision as she whispered, “I knew you’d find the message.” I wrapped her in a trembling hug. She finally explained everything—how she’d witnessed something suspicious in her own home, how she hadn’t known whom to trust, how she’d left clues only I would understand. We sat beneath the oak as the first stars brightened, planning what to do next—together. The bill, the message, the hidden note—they weren’t just clues. They were her way of reaching out for hope, and I was determined not to let her face the darkness alone.
