The tree stands there in the garden, leaves reaching for the sky, proud and mighty through the years. Its roots travel under the ground, pulling in water and nutrients, year after year. No one goes near the tree—they don’t want to talk about the people that disappear under its branches every summer. It’s always out-of-towners, who come over to admire the branches, and touch the bark, and never return from the garden.

All of the paths lead to the tree, even, simple stones laid out in a straight path. Flowers bloom in bunches along the sides, gracing the way to the center of the town. Of course, they have a main square, and they pretend to walk along it, but they all know in their hearts what goes on.

Every year, two or four people don’t come back, and no one says a word about the red veins in the leaves. Life moves on into the winter, and the town settles around the tree to wait for the coming summer. A family somewhere grieves, and no one walks the pathways to trim the flowers.