The night before my best friend vanished, she pressed a five-dollar bill into my hand and said, almost urgently, “I owe you money. Take this.” It felt random, but I dropped it into my jar and didn’t think about it again.
Three weeks later, for reasons I still can’t explain, I checked the bill. Along the white border near the portrait was faint handwriting—so light it almost blended into the paper. It wasn’t her usual bubbly style, but I recognized it instantly. Three words: “Find the oak.”
There was only one oak she ever meant—the old tree behind the abandoned observatory, our secret summer spot. She hadn’t mentioned it in months, not since things at home had grown tense.
The next day, I biked there with the bill in my pocket. Circling the tree, I noticed a section of bark that looked freshly disturbed. It shifted under my fingers, revealing a small hollow. Inside was a folded scrap of paper, torn unevenly.
Her handwriting filled it this time—messy, panicked. She hadn’t run away. She’d overheard something involving someone she trusted and was afraid. She ended with instructions: Come back at sunset on the first clear day.
That night, beneath an amber sky, I returned. A faint whistle drifted from behind the observatory—our old signal.
She stepped out, thinner but alive, and whispered, “I knew you’d find it.”
In that moment, I understood: the bill wasn’t just money—it was hope, hidden where only I would look.
