the fire is kindling (4)

Eric and I found this clearing by accident, stumbling upon it after a long day of chasing shadows and pretending to be explorers. We called it our “fort,” though it was little more than a patch of dirt and a ring of stones we’d arranged to form a fire pit.

Eric always brought the stories. “You know, they say the trees can talk,” he whispered one afternoon as we crouched near the fire pit, poking at the ashes from the night before.

“Trees don’t talk,” I scoffed, though I glanced at the nearest oak with a hint of caution.“They do if you listen,” he insisted. “Especially at night. They whisper about what they’ve seen.