A Phantom of Memories
The figure in the distance moved hastily in the fog.
Eli dismissed it and ushered the autumn leaves with his feet over the cobbled pavement. His Doc Martens made a clack in contact with the solid beneath his feet. Taking his foot away from the ground, he saw that he had made a wet footprint on the ground.
It had rained a few hours ago, but the moisture in the air still lingered. Like a soft curtain billowing on his bare shoulders, a slight breeze tangled in his hair that now reached his collarbones. It has been a long wet summer. Barely a gap of time left for fresh sunshine to sit on the city that now harbours almost no one.
It has become a ghost town, especially a phantom to many old memories that lay embedded in the streets, the shophouses, the neighborhood, and this… particular park.
He continued his walk down the cobbled path and stopped before a large cotton tree. This tree was the biggest of this kind in that park and the only one that never got shaved down. It was just one of those trees that seemed to look after itself, shedding its old branches and leaves, creating a cascade of golden leaves around its roots. The folks used to call it the sanctuary. Arborists strayed far, rebellious teenagers never leaving their mark on its bark; animals too won’t dare to mark territory.
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He reckoned that the figure earlier was the usual elderly man that would make his rounds through the park, making sure everything was in order. He used to hear his friends joke about how he was the oldest person in town and that he used to have a wife. They would always be seen at that cotton tree. Of course, that was when the tree wasn’t an area to be trespassed on then.
When the wife of the old man passed, it was as if an unspoken word went around that everyone should avoid the tree. Since then, the park became quiet, people started to leave the town, and one by one the shops started to close down.
Eli made a round around the tree and another round and stopped somewhere at the third quarter around the fallen leaves. Somewhere near the rise of thick roots there was a small engraving of two initials set into the bark. It was so discreet that one who wasn’t familiar with the shape of the tree would never notice it was even there. He ran his fingers across the engraving, his fingers slowly bumping against the unevenness. Suddenly, he felt a light gust of wind through his tank top and the back of his head towards his ears.
“It’s our spot,” a gentle voice in the wind said. It felt like a warm wind that caressed his ears. He looked behind him by instinct. A spiral of wind brought upon a small gathering of leaves.
The leaves rustled gently in the breeze.
