The Wish Tree
During the final year of high school, Lam An arrived at school earlier than usual to take out her books and review her lessons.
She knew the exact time was seventeen minutes earlier because she had checked the clock three times on the bus. The first time was at the old market stop, the second when the bus stopped in front of the banh mi shop, and the last when the driver slammed on the brakes so hard that a little boy's backpack flew straight into her shoulder.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
An handed the backpack back, then looked out the window. Outside, the familiar road was still wet from last night’s rain. The puddles held onto scraps of a pale sky, as if someone had dropped the entire morning onto the pavement.
The school gates opened at six thirty. The campus was emptier than she’d expected. A few flame tree leaves clung to the railing, the security office crackled with radio static, and Building C stood silent, its windows thick with green moss.
An stood beneath the flame tree in front of Building C.
The students called this tree the wish tree. Not because it was beautiful, or because it was the oldest tree on campus. It was simply because every summer, people tied ribbons to its branches bearing the things they hadn’t had the chance to say. Over the years, the faded strips of fabric layered over one another, making the tree look like a giant calendar, every page a name from a life that had passed through.
An used to laugh when she heard that story.
Now she couldn’t laugh.
In her uniform pocket was a pale yellow ribbon. She had bought it at the grocery store near her house the night before. On it, in handwriting so small she had to squint to read it, she had written: “A place I can never forget.”
A safe sentence. Harmless. But it held all the dreams and ambitions of youth.
“Are you planning to stand there until the tree grows more leaves?”
An turned around. Khang was crouching beside the flower bed, an old camera hanging from his neck. The wind had tousled his hair, and one of his shoelaces had come undone without him noticing.
“When did you get here?” An asked.
“Two minutes before you.”
“So why didn’t you say hi?”
“I was taking a picture of you looking at that tree like it was an entrance exam.”
An reached out and covered the lens.
“Delete it.”
“I haven’t taken it yet.”
“Then you have to delete it even more.”
Khang laughed. The sound rang out across the empty campus, startling a few sparrows on the eaves into flight.
He stood up, brushed the dust off his knees, and looked at the ribbon in An’s hand.
“What did you write?”
“None of your business.”
“Then it’s definitely about me. If it had nothing to do with me, you would’ve said, ‘Nothing.’”
An hated how Khang could always guess the things she didn’t want to say. She hated even more that she always let him figure them out.
The bell announcing the period rang from the administration building. The campus began filling with the sounds of shoes, voices calling to one another, and someone complaining about not having done their math homework. Ordinary days returned so quickly that An almost believed the final year of high school was only a dream she hadn’t fully woken from.
Khang adjusted his camera strap.
“Let’s take a class picture this afternoon.”
“Why take one? It’s not like it’s for the yearbook.”
“Why wait for the yearbook to take pictures?”
An was silent for a second, then laughed louder.
The two of them headed toward the stairs. An slowed beneath the flame tree’s canopy and secretly tied the yellow ribbon to a low branch. The wind immediately pulled it to one side, revealing the words only she could see.
*A place I can never forget.*
An didn’t write her name. She was afraid that if she did, the goodbye would become real.
Up ahead, Khang turned around and called:
“An, hurry up! If our homeroom teacher catches you being late during the final year of high school, you’ll have to give a speech about your feelings.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She ran after him, her backpack brushing lightly against her hip.
Behind them, the yellow ribbon trembled in the wind. It didn’t know An would leave. It also didn’t know that someone was standing beneath the second-floor hallway, watching everything.
Mai Chi stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the railing.
She looked at the ribbon, then at An laughing with Khang at the end of the stairs.
Mai Chi didn’t know what had happened. But she knew one thing: An’s smile today had said everything she was keeping hidden.