"The Gift" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Albert had always worn his years well. His gait was slower now, his hair a silvery wave, but there was still a light in his eyes—an ember of curiosity, of wonder. Yet today, he felt tired. Bone-deep tired. He couldn’t remember when he had started walking, only that he had been walking for a very long time. The path beneath his feet was dappled with light and shadow, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. There was a dreamlike haze in the air, like sunlight seen through water, and he couldn’t quite tell if he was dreaming—or if he had crossed into something else entirely.
At last, he reached a gentle knoll. A bench sat beneath the welcoming arms of a mighty oak tree, its branches whispering secrets to the breeze. With a sigh of relief and quiet pleasure, Albert sat. The bench was weathered but solid. The shade cooled his skin, and the air smelled of warm earth and distant summer rain. Birds sang in a layered symphony, each note a thread in the afternoon’s soft tapestry.
Then he saw him.
A figure, approaching from a different path—one Albert hadn’t taken. As the young man drew nearer, Albert could see he was perhaps in his twenties. Casual clothes, sturdy walking boots, wavy dark brown hair that curled slightly at the temples. His eyes were bright, inquisitive. His posture spoke of strength, steadiness. A soldier, perhaps.
“Mind if I sit?” the young man asked.
Albert shifted, making room. “Not at all.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, the kind that needs no words. Then came introductions.
“I’m Matt,” the young man said, extending his hand.
“Albert,” he replied, shaking it. Their hands lingered just a moment longer than expected. It felt like meeting someone he already knew.
They spoke of small things at first—birdsong, the way the light moved through the trees, the scent of honeysuckle nearby. Then of childhood memories, of favorite books and quiet mornings. When the sun began to lower itself behind the distant ridge, they parted with a smile, as though they would see each other again.
And they did.
Each new day, Albert found himself back on the path, climbing that gentle hill, returning to the bench beneath the oak. And each day, Matt would arrive. They would talk—sometimes about the past, sometimes about nothing at all. They laughed together. Confided in each other. Time stretched and folded in ways Albert had stopped trying to measure.
One day, Matt reached into his pocket and handed Albert a small object. A gold star, its center a single ruby.
“It’s a gift,” Matt said simply. “For your friendship.”
Albert took it reverently. The weight of it in his palm felt real. Solid. True.
Then came the jolt. The wrench.
Albert opened his eyes to blinding light and antiseptic air. Beeping machines. The scent of alcohol. A hospital room. Disoriented, he tried to sit up, his heart pounding in confusion and grief.
A nurse entered, followed by a doctor. Their expressions were kind. Concerned.
“You were in an accident,” the doctor explained. “A bad one. You’ve been in a coma for several days. But you’re awake now. You’re going to be okay.”
Albert listened, only half-hearing. He glanced at his hands—and there it was.
The gold star with the ruby center.
Days passed. He healed. He returned home—to his dog, his cat, to the life he had left suspended.
Everything felt both blessed and strange. But one thought stayed with him, as steady as a heartbeat: Matt.
The memory of his voice, his laughter, the calm wisdom in his gaze. It couldn’t have been real…could it?
And yet…
Albert began to search. For the knoll. For the tree. For the bench. Parks, trails, forests—he wandered for weeks. Nothing.
Until one day, while walking through a nearby park he rarely visited, a fork in the path caught his eye.
Something about it stirred recognition in his bones. He followed it. Up a slow hill, past wildflowers and sumac.
And there it was.
The bench. The oak tree. The hush of wind in the leaves. The feeling of home.
He sat, overwhelmed by a rush of joy and longing. He half expected Matt to appear. He did not.
Albert turned his gaze toward the direction Matt had always come from. A narrow trail led away through the trees. Compelled by something he could not explain, Albert stood and followed it. Down a slope, over a trickling stream, through a small thicket. Eventually, the path opened.
To a cemetery.
His breath caught. He hesitated. But something within him urged him on. Past aged stones and quiet names, until he reached one that stilled his soul.
Matthew James Rourke
Beloved Son, Friend, and Dreamer
Born: 1948 – Died: 1973
Twenty-five. Gone fifty years.
Albert sank to his knees before the stone. He did not cry. He simply sat in stillness, a quiet knowing wrapping around him like a shawl. The wind stirred the leaves above, and he felt, not sorrow, but peace.
Welcome back, old friend, the wind seemed to say.
The next day, Albert returned, white lilies in hand. He placed them gently at the base of the headstone, then stood for a long while, holding the little gold star tightly in his palm.
Matt had been real.
Real in the way the soul remembers. Real in the ways that matter most.
Albert never stopped visiting the knoll. The bench became his sanctuary. Sometimes, he would bring a book and read aloud. Sometimes, he would sit in silence, smiling at memories that danced like sunbeams through oak leaves.
And sometimes, just sometimes, when the breeze blew just right and the shadows played across the ground, he could swear he heard laughter—low and warm—and felt the presence of a friend beside him.
Not gone. Just ahead.
~Wylddane
At last, he reached a gentle knoll. A bench sat beneath the welcoming arms of a mighty oak tree, its branches whispering secrets to the breeze. With a sigh of relief and quiet pleasure, Albert sat. The bench was weathered but solid. The shade cooled his skin, and the air smelled of warm earth and distant summer rain. Birds sang in a layered symphony, each note a thread in the afternoon’s soft tapestry.
Then he saw him.
A figure, approaching from a different path—one Albert hadn’t taken. As the young man drew nearer, Albert could see he was perhaps in his twenties. Casual clothes, sturdy walking boots, wavy dark brown hair that curled slightly at the temples. His eyes were bright, inquisitive. His posture spoke of strength, steadiness. A soldier, perhaps.
“Mind if I sit?” the young man asked.
Albert shifted, making room. “Not at all.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, the kind that needs no words. Then came introductions.
“I’m Matt,” the young man said, extending his hand.
“Albert,” he replied, shaking it. Their hands lingered just a moment longer than expected. It felt like meeting someone he already knew.
They spoke of small things at first—birdsong, the way the light moved through the trees, the scent of honeysuckle nearby. Then of childhood memories, of favorite books and quiet mornings. When the sun began to lower itself behind the distant ridge, they parted with a smile, as though they would see each other again.
And they did.
Each new day, Albert found himself back on the path, climbing that gentle hill, returning to the bench beneath the oak. And each day, Matt would arrive. They would talk—sometimes about the past, sometimes about nothing at all. They laughed together. Confided in each other. Time stretched and folded in ways Albert had stopped trying to measure.
One day, Matt reached into his pocket and handed Albert a small object. A gold star, its center a single ruby.
“It’s a gift,” Matt said simply. “For your friendship.”
Albert took it reverently. The weight of it in his palm felt real. Solid. True.
Then came the jolt. The wrench.
Albert opened his eyes to blinding light and antiseptic air. Beeping machines. The scent of alcohol. A hospital room. Disoriented, he tried to sit up, his heart pounding in confusion and grief.
A nurse entered, followed by a doctor. Their expressions were kind. Concerned.
“You were in an accident,” the doctor explained. “A bad one. You’ve been in a coma for several days. But you’re awake now. You’re going to be okay.”
Albert listened, only half-hearing. He glanced at his hands—and there it was.
The gold star with the ruby center.
Days passed. He healed. He returned home—to his dog, his cat, to the life he had left suspended.
Everything felt both blessed and strange. But one thought stayed with him, as steady as a heartbeat: Matt.
The memory of his voice, his laughter, the calm wisdom in his gaze. It couldn’t have been real…could it?
And yet…
Albert began to search. For the knoll. For the tree. For the bench. Parks, trails, forests—he wandered for weeks. Nothing.
Until one day, while walking through a nearby park he rarely visited, a fork in the path caught his eye.
Something about it stirred recognition in his bones. He followed it. Up a slow hill, past wildflowers and sumac.
And there it was.
The bench. The oak tree. The hush of wind in the leaves. The feeling of home.
He sat, overwhelmed by a rush of joy and longing. He half expected Matt to appear. He did not.
Albert turned his gaze toward the direction Matt had always come from. A narrow trail led away through the trees. Compelled by something he could not explain, Albert stood and followed it. Down a slope, over a trickling stream, through a small thicket. Eventually, the path opened.
To a cemetery.
His breath caught. He hesitated. But something within him urged him on. Past aged stones and quiet names, until he reached one that stilled his soul.
Matthew James Rourke
Beloved Son, Friend, and Dreamer
Born: 1948 – Died: 1973
Twenty-five. Gone fifty years.
Albert sank to his knees before the stone. He did not cry. He simply sat in stillness, a quiet knowing wrapping around him like a shawl. The wind stirred the leaves above, and he felt, not sorrow, but peace.
Welcome back, old friend, the wind seemed to say.
The next day, Albert returned, white lilies in hand. He placed them gently at the base of the headstone, then stood for a long while, holding the little gold star tightly in his palm.
Matt had been real.
Real in the way the soul remembers. Real in the ways that matter most.
Albert never stopped visiting the knoll. The bench became his sanctuary. Sometimes, he would bring a book and read aloud. Sometimes, he would sit in silence, smiling at memories that danced like sunbeams through oak leaves.
And sometimes, just sometimes, when the breeze blew just right and the shadows played across the ground, he could swear he heard laughter—low and warm—and felt the presence of a friend beside him.
Not gone. Just ahead.
~Wylddane
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