Page 27 of Beautiful Ruins
The day Logan had made up our song, I’d slipped into the creek and lost a shoe—a pair my parents had only just bought me. Logan had snorted out a laugh and jumped into the creek to find it. He hadn’t. Then I’d cried for about ten minutes, not because I’d lost the shoe, but because my mum was going to be pissed that I had.
He’d wrapped an arm around my shoulders and sighed, like it was his job to fix everything. Then he’d sungout the words, “Tadpoles, frogs, and dragonflies, Hollow Creek, where the secret lies.”
It had been his way of telling me he had my back. Then, the tune just stuck with us.
Maybe that’s why he had written those words down six years ago. Maybe he had been trying to tell me that even if he wasn’t here in physical form, he’d still have my back.
I dropped the notebook back in the box and flipped the lid closed. The next box was much the same—folders of newspaper clippings on suspected arson at local properties. Mostly sheds. Sometimes homes. Fires weren’t unusual around here. It only took a lightning storm and some dry kindling.
A photo corner stuck out of one folder. I pulled it free, and my heart leapt into my throat.
It was Logan and me, maybe six or seven. We were standing next to each other, Logan’s arm around my shoulders, my arm around his waist. I had been looking at the camera. He had been looking at me. Not romantically—we were just kids. Just loyal. Like he’d always be there.
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes before I could stop them. Swiping at them, I turned the photo over.
Sadie and Logan, 2007.
My mum’s handwriting. Why had she kept this?
A sob choked out of me, and I held the photo to my chest. The warmth of the shed closed in on me, and I crawled towards the open door, skin scraping over loose rocks until I hit dry grass.
I had to get out.
My legs took over before my brain could catch up, and I bolted toward the broken fence at the back of the yard,disappearing into the bushland. Dust kicked up behind me, rocks stabbing at my bare feet. I didn’t care. I just wanted to forget. Forget the ache. Forget the reason I came back. Forget Logan.
Screw you, Logan. How could you leave me?
Branches clawed at my arms as I ran. The air smelled like dirt and heat and something older, something rotting beneath the surface.
My lungs burned, and I stopped, breathless, hands on my knees, still gripping the photo. It was crinkled now, my face distorted, like even the photo couldn’t recognise who I was without him.
I wanted to scream. To punch him for leaving. To hold him like it would bring him back. I fucking missed him. I loved him. God, I loved him.
A bird squawked overhead, startling me. I glanced up, blinking through my tears. And there it was—weathered, crooked, hidden between twisted branches.
The treehouse. Our treehouse.
My feet carried me toward it before I could stop myself.
Crickets chirped in the dark.A distant owl called out. The small treehouse creaked softly, settling under its old age as I sat cross-legged on the wooden floor. Climbing back inside was like opening a time capsule—same worn floorboards, same smell of damp wood and dust.
Photos were scattered around me as I sobbed into the void I kept falling deeper into. They’d once been stuck to the walls with sticky tape but now stared at the rotting roof covered in dead leaves.
Logan and I had built the thing when we were ten years old. And by ‘we’, I meant Logan. He’d built most of it while I’d carried jugs of home-made lemonade from our houses for when he got thirsty. Then I’d sit and watch as he worked until the sun went down, sometimes even later.
Muted-coloured memories stared back at me, the only proof he’d ever been here. And there I was, sitting in the middle of them, swiping at tears I’d long kept buried.
Sniffing, I picked up one in particular—a rare photo with Rowan, Logan and me all together. We would have been sixteen by then, Logan and me, his arm slung around my shoulders. Both of us had been grinning at the camera, while Rowan stood on the other side of me, a scowl on his face and as much distance between us as possible.
He’d rarely smiled. Only when he was mucking around with Logan. Or when he’d looked at me, and I caught him staring. Those had been the days when I’d imagined more happening between us.
Logan and I were supposed to see it all. Then I’d come home and tell Rowan how I felt. No more guessing. No more waiting for him to make the first move.
So many times, I’d wanted to tell Logan. He’d assumed there was something there, always teasing, making comments whenever Rowan had been around. It was his way of telling me he was fine with it.
I traced a finger over Logan’s face. My thumb brushed the fading edges, and a small smile crept onto my lips before I could stop it. He really had been one of the good guys.
The creak of wood froze me to the spot. It hadn’t come from me. No-one knew about this place. No-one but me and Logan.
