The Recorder heard the oak fall while her pen was still moving. The sound came from the north grove: one report of splitting wood, then a long, low complaint that made the ink quiver in its well. She was writing that the miller’s wagon had crossed the ford before dusk. By the time she looked up, dust had gathered among the trunks and the birds were returning to them.
She put a line beneath the miller’s name and closed the ledger.
At sunset the woodcutter’s son found her carrying the ledger home. He was twelve and had been crying hard enough to leave two clean tracks through the dust on his face.
“You saw it?” he asked.
“I heard it.”
“But you saw it fall?”
The Recorder looked past him. From the road, she could see the new break in the canopy.
“No,” she said.
But that was not the story I wanted to tell …
{…}
