The summer my mother finished school, a boy named Leo died near his home. He was young, just seventeen, and the accident happened only a month after their final ceremony. He was driving back one quiet morning while his family was away. His car swerved off the road by the bend in Willow Creek, which ran through his property.
He was hurt badly in the crash, but with no one around to hear or help, he was gone by the time his parents returned. The quiet creek became a sad place.
I discovered this story years later when my family moved next door. I always felt a strange stillness near that part of the creek, but never knew why. My neighbor’s daughter, who often visited to explore the woods with me, finally told me the truth last week. She said a boy had died there long ago, and suddenly all the quiet pieces fit together.