The Promise
Two childhood friends make a pact to meet at their special spot in twenty years. Life takes them on different paths, but some promises are never broken.
We were ten years old, sitting on the old oak tree that overlooked the town. We were inseparable, two halves of a whole. "Promise me," Sarah said, her eyes serious, "that in twenty years, no matter where we are, we'll meet right here. On this day, at this time." I promised. It was a solemn vow, sealed with a secret handshake.
Life, as it does, pulled us apart. My family moved away. We wrote letters, then emails, but eventually, the distance became too great, and our lives too different. I became a lawyer in a bustling city; she traveled the world as a photojournalist. The years flew by, a whirlwind of work, relationships, and new experiences. But I never forgot our promise.
On the eve of the twentieth anniversary, I was hesitant. Was it foolish to think she'd remember? I booked a flight anyway. Returning to my hometown was a surreal experience. The town had changed, but the old oak tree was still there, a silent witness to our childhood. I climbed the hill, my heart a mix of hope and anxiety. And then I saw her. She was sitting on the same branch, a camera in her lap, looking out at the town. She turned and smiled, the same familiar smile. "You're late," she said. We weren't ten anymore, but in that moment, under the branches of our tree, it felt like no time had passed at all.