The Unfruitful Acacia

It was the summer before our final year in college when the construction crew arrived at the edge of our dusty barangay. Our usual meeting spot, a gnarled acacia tree at the corner of the abandoned lot, was marked with a red X. That tree had been a silent witness to our childhood—a sanctuary during the spider season when we would pit our prized fighters against each other, their webs shimmering in the afternoon heat. It never bore fruit, as if it had given up on life long ago, yet it stood tall, a ghost of green in the barren earth.

The day they cut it down, a strange stillness settled over the neighborhood. The chainsaw groaned, and the tree fell with a sigh that felt almost human. My friends, Mateo and Lina, and I watched from a distance, feeling an inexplicable loss. We joked that we’d have to find a new arena for our spider duels, but deep down, we knew something had changed.

That evening, February 14, we were invited to a small gathering in the newly cleared residential area. The invitation was for a ‘love festival’ at a communal hut, a simple bamboo structure that looked out of place among the freshly leveled lots. The area was dark, the streetlights not yet installed, and the only illumination came from the sliver of the moon and the distant flicker of the party’s lanterns.

At around ten o’clock, I arrived at the hut, finding Mateo and Lina already there, their faces lit by a single flashlight. They looked nervous, and I soon learned why. As we walked toward the gate, intending to head to the party, we noticed a figure at the edge of the lot, near where the acacia once stood. It was a white shape, formless yet somehow human, hovering about thirty feet away. My first thought was that my father had come to drag me home, but as we drew closer, the figure didn’t move.

‘What is that?’ Lina whispered, her hand gripping my arm. I squinted, trying to make sense of the apparition. It seemed to be a woman in a white dress, her face obscured by the darkness. She stood perfectly still, her feet not quite touching the ground. A cold breeze blew past us, carrying the faint scent of rotting leaves.

‘Let’s go,’ Mateo said, his voice shaky. But we couldn’t. We were rooted to the spot, watching as the figure began to sway, as if dancing to an unheard melody. Then, it started to move toward us, gliding rather than walking. We turned and ran, not stopping until we burst into the party, breathless and pale.

The party was in full swing, music blaring and people laughing, but we couldn’t shake the image of that white figure. We tried to enjoy ourselves, but every time we glanced out the window, we saw her again, standing at the edge of the light, watching. We decided to leave early, but as we stepped out, we found that the gate was locked. The caretaker, an old man with rheumy eyes, said he hadn’t seen anyone come in or out. He also mentioned that the party had been held to celebrate the start of construction, on a spot where an old woman had been buried after she died waiting for her lover to return from the war.

As we walked home, the streets were eerily empty. The moon had set, and the darkness was absolute. We passed by the lot where the acacia had stood, and there, in the middle of the fresh stumps, was the white figure again. This time, we saw her face—it was gaunt, with hollow eyes and a mouth stretched into a sad smile. She raised a hand, pointing at us, and then she vanished.

That night, none of us slept. We huddled together in Lina’s living room, not speaking, just listening to the sounds of the night. At dawn, we heard the news: a construction worker had been found dead near the lot, his face frozen in terror. The investigation found no cause of death, but the workers refused to return, and the project was abandoned.

We never spoke of what we saw, but we all knew. The acacia tree, unfruitful and silent, had been the protector of that land. With it gone, something else had taken root. And sometimes, when I pass by that empty lot, I see a glimpse of white among the weeds, and I know she’s still waiting, for a love that never came.