Patrick stood at the edge of the forest, which practically sighed as the sun finally emerged from behind the clouds. He could feel the heat warming the leaves of the trees, just as could feel the roots pulling up the water from days of rain. He breathed the smell of wet earth and leaves in deeply, listening to the last bits of rain falling from the leaves deep in the woods. If he could, Patrick would stay here all day, being close to the trees. But unfortunately, he had a shift.

He took one last deep breath of air, before heading back into town. He had an evening of serving tired truck drivers and middle-aged office workers ahead of him. Mostly he would spend the time staring across the counter and out the window at the massive tree that grew in the small park across the street from the diner. It was an American oak. It had been his favorite tree since he’d learned it as a kid. At the time he thought the tree was named after his family, or maybe, him, Patrick Oak, personally.

  As an adult, he liked it for its beauty and its strength. The particular oak across the street radiated strength and a certain calm. When it was slow at the diner, he would trace it in his mind, from the highest branch, travelling down to the deepest roots. Could feel its stomata opening to release moisture into the air. And if he was really focused he could almost make out the processes of photosynthesis happening within, the conversion of one kind of energy into another. Almost.

  Today, unfortunately, was not a day for such meditation. All but one booth and two seats at the counter were full when he walked into the diner and he was thrown into taking orders before he could even put his apron on. He was directed to a middle-aged couple.

  “Hi y’all, I’m Patrick, I’ll be your server for today. How are you guys doing?” Patrick said, without even thinking of the words. It was pretty rote at this point

  “You got that fried catfish again?” the man asked immediately.

  “We don’t have fried catfish, no.” Patrick knew where this was going.

  “You had it last week.” The man said.

  “We didn’t have catfish last week.”

  “Yes, you did. You probably didn’t work.”

  “I worked every day last week. Maybe you’d like the country-fried steak? I can bring extra gravy.” That sometimes worked, but this man did not give the impression he would be deterred.

  “You had catfish. Maybe it wasn’t last week. A month or two ago.” Yeah, no luck.

  “We haven’t had it in the two years I’ve worked here, unfortunately.” Patrick decided to soften the blow. “Maybe before then though.” They definitely did not.

  The man’s wife clearly just wanted to order, so she blessedly took over.

  “Must’ve been that. I’ll have the BLT and I’m sure Bill would love to take you up on the extra gravy.” She shot her husband a pointed look.

  “Yes, that would be good thanks.” He said sheepishly.

  Patrick would be sure that lady got extra fries too.

  The rest of the evening followed suit. It didn’t get much worse, but he was utterly worn out from being pleasant for hours. The post-shift shit-talking while closing helped, as always. As he was tying up a trash bag, Ren, his favorite server, leaned over.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“So I had the weirdest dream last. You were in it.” She said, conspiratorially.

  Oh no, Patrick thought. Dreams and people like him did not go well together.

  “Yeah? Was it that my back stopped hurting?” Please let it just be something dumb.

  “Nah, that tree you’re always staring at out the window was in it,” Ren said. Patrick looked surprised. “What, I’m observant,” she said.

  “I see.”

  “But, yeah, you were like crying or something and both your hands looked burnt.” She said, pausing. “And the tree was dead. Like, dead dead. Not even a single leaf on it.”

  Fuck. Patrick thought.

  “You didn’t get weed from that guy who always has the laced stuff again, did you?”

  “Nope, haven’t smoked in like two weeks, to be honest. I don’t know. It was a fucking weird dream, like I remember the whole thing vividly.” She thought, then smirked. “You’re not an arsonist who gets off burning trees or something?”

  “Not that I know of.” Very much not so.

  “Well, thought I’d share. Probably just weird stuff in my head.” Ren said before starting to complain about some guy, very married, who was hitting on her in front of his kids. Patrick half-listened but was now stressed about what it could mean. Did something send a dream to Ren? He hadn’t been having any dreams for months.

  No, that’s not true. It’d been two and a half years since he’d had a dream he could remember. Maybe if there were a prophetic dream for him, it would have to go to someone else, given his dream block. But Ren was normal, at least regarding magic. But nothing said prophetic visions were only the domain of those with magic. They weren’t inherently magical.

  Or he was overthinking it, and his friend just had a weird dream.

  Why did it have to be an oak tree though?

  The next few days followed in a similar fashion. Patrick would spend time thinking in the forest, go to work, stare at a tree, and then go home. No more prophetic visions. No hand burning. No dead trees. This kind of stability is what lured Patrick to this place, this life. He remembered, after everything that happened two and a half years prior, that he’d been aimless. Unmoored. He had meditated and felt a great calm, some kind of anchor. He had gotten in his car to find it and arrived here, at this little town in the Appalachian Mountains. The forests here, with trees like this oak held some power. He found it soothing and stable. And like that, he developed a soothing and stable life here, devoid of dreams, but also a balm to old pains.

  A dream threatening those trees that had granted him that peace terrified him. He had had the rug swept out from under him before, had lost a future he hadn’t even realized he was looking forward to yet. He wasn’t sure he could handle it happening again.

  “Have a good night!” He yelled to Ren as they headed in separate directions. The shift had been dead, only ten or so people wandering in. Patrick had spent most of the time focusing on the oak, counting its roots and leaves. It was relaxing, but in the back of his head was a twinge of doubt. The calm was over. And as he lay down in bed that night, he felt something different in the back of his mind. Before he could think much about it, sleep took him.

The man was on fire.

Patrick couldn’t see much of him. His body language said he was distraught.

Obviously, Patrick thought, being on fire is probably distressing.

He was being drawn to him, literally. An invisible force was pulling Patrick forward. He could feel it happening. It was less a force acting upon his whole body, but rather lied he was being pulled by a rope that was connected to him somehow. It felt like it was in his chest.

The man on fire was looking at him now. Still distraught, but Patrick could make out some of his face. He also looked like he was pleading.

Obviously, Patrick thought, he’s probably pleading to not be on fire.

He could make out his eyes now. Those pleading eyes.

My god, they’re beautiful. Patrick thought. I know those eyes. I’ve never seen those eyes before. I have to know those eyes.

He was now running forward, no longer being pulled. Or, not in the same way.

He reached out, grabbed the man on fire.

And woke up.

  “Fuck” Patrick said.