He was already in his school uniform, his rucksack packed for the day and waiting by the front door. All things he’d done for himself.
He sat with his back to the kitchen window, the one over the sink that looked out onto their small back garden,
across the train tracks and up to the church with its graveyard. And its yew tree.
Conor took another bite of his cereal. His chewing was the only sound in the whole house.
It had been a dream. What else could it have been? When he’d opened his eyes this morning,
the first thing he’d looked at was his window. It had still been there, of course,
no damage at all, no gaping hole into the back garden. Of course it had.
Only a baby would have thought it really happened. Only a baby would believe that a tree
– seriously, a tree – had walked down the hill and attacked the house.
He’d laughed a little at the thought, at how stupid it all was, and he’d stepped out of bed.
To the sound of a crunch beneath his feet. Every inch of his bedroom floor was covered in short, spiky yew tree leaves.
He put another bite of cereal in his mouth, definitely not looking at the rubbish bin,
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