He often returned there, although it was never the same. The emptiness somehow changed a place that once brought joy. How many times had the pram bumped over the roots? How many others had stopped to admire? How many hours spent ambling through the trees?


The path was nearly gone. It had taken less time than he thought, maybe a year, maybe a little more. Now it was only visible if you knew where to look. Trees had fallen and plants had grown. Leaves had dropped and nobody had cleared them. The rotten tree was still there, near the bridge, lying as it always had. He kicked it as he passed, something he did each time without remembering why. A faint glimmer of memory, gone. Each time the tree was kicked without any recollection. Each time he strained for some recollection. Not today. The air was too cold to stop without purpose. Maybe when summer returned he could sit and try to remember.

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