The tree. It towered over Diane, thick muscular branches reaching high into the sky, gilded by lateg-afternoon light.
She’d been walking through the park on her way home from work. She must have passed it a hundred times before, yet today it had stopped her.
She felt for a moment that it was calling to her, that it was trying to establish a connection. But that was a childish thought.
Grow up, Diane.
The words of her foster mother sprang to mind, and she began to pull away.
She stopped, looked back. Had the tree just called her name?
Grow up, Diane. It’s just a tree. Trees don’t talk.
She turned away once more.