Playdate

The car door creaked as Lyra climbed into the back seat, her small legs swinging awkwardly over the edge. She glanced nervously at the boy sitting beside her, his blond hair neatly combed, his hands folded in his lap as though he were already a mini-adult.

“This is Lyra,” Orin’s mum said warmly, glancing at her son in the rearview mirror. “Are you going to say hello?”

Orin looked up, his expression reserved. “Hello,” he said flatly, though a flicker of curiosity danced in his dark eyes.

Lyra shifted uncomfortably, brushing a strand of her tangled hair from her face. “Hi.”

And just like that, the introductions were over. Orin’s mum sighed softly, hoping for a bit more enthusiasm, then started the car.

Lyra had been left in Orin’s mum’s care for the day, a favour for Lyra’s parents, who had an emergency to attend to. She was quiet but observant, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings of the car interior and the boy sitting beside her. Orin, for his part, didn’t quite know what to make of this sudden addition to his day. But one thing was clear—this was going to be an interesting afternoon.

The trip was a short one, barely long enough for Lyra to decide whether Orin was boring or mysterious. She didn’t quite have time to make up her mind before the car pulled into a gravel car park, a sign reading “Emerald Forest Nature Reserve” standing crookedly at the entrance.

“We’re here to do some tree rubbings,” Orin’s mum explained cheerfully, stepping out of the car. She handed each child a stack of paper and a bundle of crayons. “Go on, find the biggest, most interesting tree you can!”

Orin walked ahead, his strides purposeful even at his young age. Lyra lagged behind, looking around at the towering trees. The air smelled damp and earthy, and sunlight trickled through the leaves, painting the ground in shifting patches of gold.

“You’re supposed to pick a tree,” Orin called back, his tone already edging on instructive.

“I’m looking,” Lyra replied, sticking out her tongue when he turned away.

After wandering a bit further, her eyes landed on a particularly odd-looking tree. Its trunk twisted dramatically to one side before straightening out, as though it had changed its mind halfway through growing.

“I like this big wonky one,” Lyra declared, grinning as she placed her hand on its gnarled bark.

Orin glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “Wonky’s an understatement.”

“Exactly why it’s perfect,” Lyra said with a satisfied nod.

The big, crooked tree stood out starkly among its straight-limbed neighbours, its uniqueness hinting at some kind of greater significance.

Lyra positioned her paper and began rubbing furiously, the crayon moving erratically over the bark contours beneath the paper.

“You’re meant to press evenly,” Orin said, glancing over at her. “That’s how you get a proper imprint.”

Lyra rolled her eyes. “It’s fine.”

Still, she slowed down, adjusting her pressure as Orin moved to a tree with intricate bark patterns.

For a while, the two worked in relative silence, their papers slowly filling with impressions. Satisfied with her work, Lyra stood back and took a look at the tree in its entirety. Its twisted branches seemed to stretch deliberately, almost as if pointing the way forward.

Curious, Lyra tilted her head and squinted along the direction the branches seemed to gesture. “Huh,” she murmured, taking a tentative step towards the path they suggested.

“Lyra! What are you doing now?” Orin called, watching her wander off.

“Following the tree,” she called back.

The twisting path beneath her feet led her through a narrow gap in the foliage. Moments later, she stepped into a circular clearing bathed in soft, dappled sunlight. The air felt still here, almost expectant, as though this place had been waiting for her. More importantly, that’s where she found it.

Lyra looked back towards the crooked tree and smiled.

“Orin! Orin!” she called, her voice tinged with excitement.

He glanced up from his papers, frowning slightly. “What?”

“Over here!” Lyra urged, waving him over.

Orin hesitated, clutching his neatly stacked papers, but her tone piqued his curiosity. With a resigned sigh, he reluctantly followed.

What Lyra had found was unlike anything he’d seen before—a large white stone, about waist-high, perfectly smooth and symmetrical. It stood in stark contrast to the rugged stones scattered throughout the forest.

“What is it?” Lyra asked, running her fingers along its surface.

“I don’t know,” Orin admitted, stepping closer. His hand hovered over the stone, almost afraid to touch it.

The stone’s smoothness was uncanny, as though it had been polished by hand, not nature. At its centre was an indentation—a perfect hexagon etched into the surface, its edges sharp and precise, with a circle nestled within it.

“It’s… so perfect,” Lyra murmured, her voice filled with awe.

Orin reached into his bundle of paper and grabbed a blank sheet. “Let’s make a rubbing,” he said, his excitement finally breaking through his usual composure.

In turns, they pressed their paper against the hexagonal indentation, carefully rubbing over the edges to capture its shape.

When they finished, they stood back, comparing their work. “Amazing,” Orin said, mesmerised as he studied the clean lines of the curious shape. Lyra nodded, seemingly speechless—yet her unusual silence spoke volumes.

They left the forest that day with their rubbings in hand, but only this one mattered. For both of them, that single discovery sparked a fascination with shapes, symmetry, and patterns that would stay with them for years to come.

As the car rumbled back towards town, Lyra glanced over at Orin. “Do you think we’ll ever find out what it is?”

Orin shrugged, but his fingers clutched his paper a little tighter. “Maybe… Someday.”