Maple
How much longer will he take?
Iwanako shivers, a sudden freezing wind biting her skin, pulling at her hair and tugging at the hem of her maroon skirt. The skeletal branches of the maple tree above her rattle like bones in the breeze.
She’s surrounded by a fantastical winter wonderland. On her left, a sea of pure white snow, a light flurry of falling flakes dusting the landscape, her shoulders, and her hair. On her right, a small forest, branches brown and bare, their twisting limbs clustering together to form a dark, haphazard mass. In the summer, the beautiful green canopy provides a favoured retreat for the school’s couples, far from the prying eyes of teachers and fellow students, or so they tell her.
And they tell her that, somewhere along the edge of that forest, there is a special tree.
A maple tree, tall, dark, sturdy, with a thick, weathered trunk. In the summer, its lush emerald foliage shades the ground; in the autumn, its leaves turn brilliant hues of yellow and orange. But, in the winter, the leaves fall away to reveal its special secret.
Thin, Y-shaped branches with tips that curl inwards, forming the shape of a love heart. Thus, so the legend goes, any confession made under that tree is destined to succeed.
Iwanako had dismissed the rumour as sappy, superstitious nonsense, even though the tree would take on an almost mythical reputation amongst her fellow classmates. She’d lost count of how many lovestruck fools had made their attempts beneath its skeletal shroud, as though the shape of a tree’s branches could possibly increase their chances.
She spent most of high school laughing smugly at that sort of thing. Amulets, charms, pendants, star signs, blood types, compatibility, anything at all to capture the hearts of the person they desired. It was voodoo, pseudoscience, the product of the rumour machine and the desperation of a thousand lonely teenaged souls. She laughed at all of it.
Until, of course, she was suddenly struck by that feeling, that passion, and it was as if all her scepticism had been thrown out a window. Suddenly, she was worried about how to dress, how to speak, when, where, how to deliver her feelings. Just getting that note into his maths textbook required an enormous amount of stress.
Iwanako looks up. The branches above her are thin, and the tips do curve inwards a little. From some angles, and with a little squinting, she can make out a passing resemblance to a love heart. Then again, she’s not exactly certain she’s got the right tree.
She lowers her head and gazes around. There are quite a few maple trees dotted along the edge of the forest, all with thick trunks and spindly limbs, but she needs the tree. Perhaps the branches above her don’t curl inwards quite enough?
At that, Iwanako snorts loudly. The logical part of her brain reasserts itself. Whether she has the right tree or not is immaterial. The only thing that truly matters is her confession.
If the object of her confession would actually bother to turn up.
Iwanako checks her watch. 4:40 P.M. He’s late; very, very late.
It wasn’t like she was on time, either. She’d spent the lead-up to the designated hour hiding in one of the girl’s bathroom stalls, trying to calm her raging nerves. She’d spent much longer in there than she probably should have, only realizing her mistake when she glanced at her watch with a gasp, forcing her to make a beeline for the sports field and the forest beyond.
She felt bad, planning to leave him out in the cold like that, but Iwanako needed him in position, beneath the maple tree with love heart branches, waiting expectantly for her to make her grand entrance. For her to walk up behind him, surprise him, and ask him the most important question of her life.
A question from the depths of her heart.
But still, nothing. The wind blows, the flakes fall, and Iwanako stands alone. Her perfect confession plan had been for nought.
She brings her numb, shaking fingers to her lips and blows on them in a desperate attempt to get her blood circulating again. She’s neglected to bring gloves, or a scarf, or even something to cover her exposed legs with, and now she’s running a real risk of getting frostbite.
The minutes drag on, glacially. Five minutes turn to ten, then fifteen, then twenty. Iwanako’s heart sinks each time she glances at her watch, but she doesn’t move from her spot beneath the maple tree. She’s holding out, clinging to the hope that, at the last moment, he’ll appear from out of the swirling snowflakes.
But try and she might, she can’t keep the doubts at bay. Maybe he didn’t even see the note. Maybe it’s still trapped between the pages of that maths textbook, stuffed into the bottom of his bag or into his locker. Untouched. Unread.
Iwanako would prefer that to be the reason, because the only other alternative is that he did see the note, and that he did read it.
And that, in the end, he chose not to come.
Blinking, she suddenly realizes how dark it’s become. She looks at her watch.
5:05 P.M.
The sun is well and truly beginning to set, the snow turning ever darker shades of grey, the twisting limbs of the forest behind her taking on an unnerving, shadowy quality. Iwanako can hardly feel her extremities anymore; it’s as if her legs have turned into icicles, and the merest movement will cause them to shatter like glass.
Iwanako can’t stay forever. Any later, and her mother will start asking some serious questions.
Slowly, carefully, she lifts one frozen leg, hearing her footsteps crunch on the snow, amazed that she still retains any movement at all.
The tree with heart shaped branches. So much for love. So much for legend.
With one last, longing sweep of the darkening landscape, Iwanako turns for home.
…
How am I going to face him?
The carriage lurches, the elbow of the salaryman standing beside Iwanako jabbing into her sides. The train is more crowded than normal, packed with commuters in the morning rush hour, but it’s to be expected. She deliberately took a later train just so she wouldn’t have to travel with her friends. For these few, precious minutes by herself, she doesn’t want to see them.
Iwanako flexes her fingers. They still feel numb, the cold from the day before lingering despite the stuffy warmth of the carriage.
How recognizable was her note? It was a simple, short affair, giving only the time and location, no names. Perhaps he knew her neat, rounded, cutesy handwriting, carefully inscribed on a piece of light pink paper. She didn’t want to give the game away too easily, but perhaps she was too obvious.
If he simply didn’t see the note, could she just pretend it never happened? Would her heart be able to take it?
But if he knew the note was from her, and he chose not to turn up, what would she say?
How am I going to face him?
These thoughts cloud Iwanako’s mind, leaving her body on autopilot as the train stops, as she’s pushed out of the carriage and onto the platform by the press of commuters, as she absentmindedly shuffles through the ticket gates, down the stairs and onto the snow-lined street. She lets her feet guide her on the sidewalks, across the pedestrian crossings, walking, walking, walking, until she’s already at the school gates.
She’s so distracted that she doesn’t notice the clumps of students standing about in the courtyard and near the entrances, talking in low, hushed tones. She’s so distracted that she doesn’t notice it’s already past the start of classes and the bell has not yet gone.
She’s so utterly distracted that she doesn’t even notice the police cars parked next to the school, nor the blue-vested police officers hurriedly moving about in the hallways.
Iwanako only comes to her senses when she finds the wooden sliding door to her classroom right in front of her, her hand on the metal latch.
Can I face him?
She takes a deep breath.
Sliding the door open, Iwanako braces for all eyes to instantly be turned on her; or worse, the boy himself, sitting at his desk, his gaze asking:
Did you give me this note?
But neither happens. Instead, the class is in an uproar. Her classmates are shouting, yelling, talking furiously to one another; surprise, fear, confusion playing on every face. Her teacher has not yet turned up. No one seems to even notice Iwanako’s entry.
Through the chaos, her eyes dart to the boy’s seat, just in front of her own.
It’s empty.
Her heart sinks. Something is wrong, very wrong.
Heading to her desk, she finds a familiar crew huddled together. Two boys, one wiry and bespectacled, the other stout with spiky hair, and one girl, tall, lean with cropped black bangs. Hisao’s crew.
Nervously, she reaches over and taps the girl on lightly the shoulder.
“Hey, Mai… what’s going on?”
The girl whirls around, but the impish smirk Iwanako is used to seeing is gone, replaced by an ashen face, cheeks blanched with fear and lips drawn in a thin, wavering line. Mai looks like she might cry at any moment. The sight jars Iwanako into a sudden, sharp clarity.
“Oh, there you are, ‘Nako. You haven’t heard?”
Mai’s voice is on the verge of panic. Iwanako can only respond with confusion.
“No…?”
Mai opens and closes her mouth a few times, before scrunching her eyes shut and spitting out the words.
“It’s Hisao. He’s gone missing.”
Iwanako’s heart stops.
“W-What?!”
That sends Mai reeling, and she looks away, trying to keep her shaking hands steady by clasping them together. Iwanako has never seen this girl, usually so full of bluster and swagger, reduced to a shivering wreck before.
What is going on?
Takumi, the wiry, bespectacled kid, takes over, his somber tone doing little to hide the anxiety in his voice.
“Yeah. Apparently, he didn’t return home from school yesterday. He’s not picking up his mobile phone either. His parents raised the alarm last night and the police started canvassing the area at sunrise.”
Iwanako suddenly remembers the police officers stalking the hallways, their navy-blue vests flashing through the haze that had consumed her mind on the way here.
“Is that why they’re in the hallways?”
Takumi pauses for a moment, searching for the words.
“Well… that’s the thing. From what we’ve heard, no one saw Hisao leave school grounds. They think he still might be here. They’re about to begin a search.”
“Still on school grounds…?”
What could have happened to him between the end of the school day and returning home?
Iwanako’s heart seizes.
Of course.
The note.
4:00 P.M. Straight after classes.
A third, dark possibility suddenly forms in her mind.
Maybe Hisao did see the note, he did read it, and he did decide to come.
She didn’t see him. She waited for almost an hour, alone in the snow, under the maple tree with love heart branches.
But she was late. She hid too long in the bathroom stall, and she wasn’t entirely sure if the tree she eventually arrived under was actually the tree.
Iwanako’s eyes go wide.
What if…
No.
It can’t be…
… can it?
Without a word, she whirls on her heels and sprints out of the classroom, crashing past desks and classmates alike as she slams the door open and bursts into a full sprint down the hallway.
“‘Nako, wait!”
Iwanako can hear Mai’s shouts and the general hubbub of the students around her as she flies down the stairs and onto the ground floor, but it’s as if her ears have been filled with water and they’re yelling at her from miles away.
Past the lockers. Past the vending machines. Out the double doors and onto the veranda, across the empty sports field, carpeted in an even thicker blanket of pure white snow than the afternoon before. She runs, and runs, and runs, making a beeline for the maple tree, standing like a dark, twisted sentinel at the edge of the forest. The frigid air rips at her lungs, a shooting pain accompanying every inhale, but she doesn’t stop, not until she’s once again under the branches.
Nothing. She can’t even see the footsteps from where she stood yesterday afternoon.
She looks up at the branches. Maybe she was just seeing what she wanted to see. The branches curve inwards, sure, but a love heart?
Iwanako turns and makes for the next maple tree, stopping when she reaches the trunk and quickly inspecting the branches. Straight.
The next tree. Droopy. Another tree. Straight.
It’s laughable, ridiculous, but she can’t help but run from tree to tree, desperately searching for the place where couples go to confess, and where Hisao might have waited, mere meters away, both unaware of each other’s presence at the edge of the skeletal forest.
Where is that tree? Does it even exist?
Where are you, Hisao?
Then, she finds it.
From afar, it looks like any other maple tree. Thick, dark trunk. Twisting limbs. But its snow dusted extremities hold one special secret.
Thin, Y-shaped branches with the tips curled inwards. Love heart shapes. The confession tree.
Her suspicions were correct. She was standing under the wrong tree all afternoon.
She slowly begins to circle the confession tree, gazing up at the love heart shapes.
“Ah!”
Iwanako’s right foot catches on something in the snow, and she tumbles over, landing face first into the freezing powder. The shocking cold stings her of her stupor, and she immediately scrambles onto her knees, wiping her face and scanning the snow for what tripped her up.
A long, snow-covered object, right in front of her, lying at the base of the confession tree.
At first, she thinks it’s a large, misshapen rock, but there’s something odd about the outline. It’s unnaturally smooth, and there’s only a rather thin layer of snow clinging to its surface.
The shape looks almost… familiar.
Leaning forward, she reaches out with a trembling hand to wipe the snow away.
“What the…”
Her blood freezes.
Her hands reveal the smooth, tan fabric of a thick, winter hoodie.
This can’t be happening.
Iwanako frantically paws at the sweater, trying to get as much snow off as possible.
A shoulder. A torso. An arm. A leg clad in black pants. A head, face down, light brown hair crusted with snow, a little frozen sprig still dangling from the top of his scalp. A neck, skin as pale as the landscape around it.
No.
No.
No.
Desperately, she begins to dig an arm out of the snow. An elbow. A wrist, the skin on the underside a sickening, splotchy blue.
It’s cold, so, so cold. The limb she’s trying to excavate is as hard and as stiff as the limbs of the tree above her, but she doesn’t stop. She can’t stop.
Not until she finds it.
And she does.
Clutched tightly in his gloved left hand, crumpled between frozen fingers, soaked with snow but still perfectly legible.
A piece of light pink paper.
Gasping for breath, she fights to pry it from his frozen fingers, wrenching them open until they finally relent and she can unfurl the note to confirm her worst fears.
Carefully inscribed in neat, rounded, cutesy handwriting. Her handwriting.
One instruction.
Meet me at the maple tree.
What if the confession had gone just a little differently?
This was written in a haze at 4am at night. I woke up struck by the idea and had to get it out.
Stay safe, everyone.
