and they wouldn’t have to move after his dad had left for America with Stephanie, the new wife.
That had been six years ago, so long now that Conor sometimes couldn’t remember what it was like having a dad in the house.
Didn’t mean he still didn’t think about it, though.
He looked up past his house to the hill beyond, the church steeple poking up into the cloudy sky.
And the yew tree hovering over the graveyard like a sleeping giant.
Conor forced himself to keep looking at it, making himself see that it was just a tree,
a tree like any other, like any one of those that lined the railway track.
A tree. That’s all it was. That’s all it ever was.
A tree. A tree that, as he watched, reared up a giant face to look at him in the sunlight,
its arms reaching out, its voice saying, Conor–
He stepped back so fast, he nearly fell into the street, catching himself on the bonnet of a parked car.
When he looked back up, it was just a tree again.
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