The night before my best friend vanished, she pressed a crumpled five-dollar bill into my hand with a strange urgency. “I owe you money. Take this bill!” she said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. At the time, it struck me as nothing more than one of her impulsive quirks. She was sixteen, restless, and always finding ways to make ordinary moments feel unusual. I tossed the bill into my savings jar and didn’t give it another thought. The next morning, she was gone.
For three weeks, her disappearance hollowed me out. The police questioned everyone, her parents spiraled between fear and denial, and rumors spread through school like wildfire. Some kids said she ran away. Others whispered darker things. None of it matched the girl I knew—the girl who loved stargazing, lemon soda, and early-morning bike rides before the world woke up. But I had no proof to offer, no clue to counter the stories forming in the absence of truth.
Then, one dull Wednesday afternoon, while cleaning my desk, I spotted the jar. The memory of her unusual insistence gnawed at me, and I reached inside for the forgotten bill. Under the lamp’s glow, something caught my eye—a faint line of handwriting etched along the white border near the portrait. It was so subtle it blended into the texture, but I knew immediately it was hers. Not her usual bubbly handwriting—this was sharp, rushed, the way she wrote when she was frightened.
Three words changed everything: “Find the oak.”
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