The Fisherman and the Willow

Old Man Harlow wasn’t lost, not really.
He just… drifted.

One paddle dipped too deep, the other too slow, and the boat turned sideways on the lake.
By the time he noticed, the current had taken him.

The mist rolled in, thick and stubborn.
The other shore looked wrong.
Too…Wild.

He tried to turn back, but the water tugged harder than it should.
Then—crack.

A hole in the hull.
Just a small one. But growing.

By the time he reached land, the boat sank behind him like a sigh.

He stood there, boots soaked, staring at the massive tree that waited just beyond the reeds.
It hummed.
Or maybe that was in his bones.

He felt it.
Felt the question.
Felt the offer.

He wanted his boat back.
And not just the boat.
He wanted to be the best fisherman this lake had ever seen.

The tree did not speak.
It simply… accepted.

Old Man Harlow woke the next morning at the base of the tree, unsure of when he had nodded off.

He stood up with his back groaning beneath his age. He went to salvage what he could from his little wreck, but to his surprise, his boat was fine. Perfect, even.
Not a scratch on it.
Oars tucked neat inside.

He shrugged. Harlow was too old to be questioning fixed boats and silly trees. He pushed off and cast his line.

Bite.
Tug.
Catch.

A perfect fish. Gleaming. Flopping.
And the second he smiled—splash.
It leapt right back into the lake.

The next one did the same.
And the next.

He spent the whole day fishing.
Caught dozens.
And not one stayed in the boat.

Still, he laughed.
He’d never caught that many in a day.

But when he got to town, he was hungry.
So he bought a fish from the market.

Before he reached his truck, a crow swooped down and snatched it.
The next fish rolled off the seat and out the open window.
The third? A dog ran off with it while he was tying his shoe.

No matter what he did, he couldn’t keep a single fish.

He thought back to the tree, and started laughing wildly.