“The Treehouse Nobody Talks About”

Derry was quiet that day. Cloudy skies. That heavy, humming kind of air right before it rains.

You and Bill had skipped out on the rest of the group after spending most of the morning biking around. Richie had been too loud, Eddie too anxious, and honestly, you could both feel the sadness trying to creep back in.

So you took the long trail behind the quarry—the one nobody really uses—until you reached the half-collapsed treehouse that had been there longer than either of you had been alive. It wasn’t even a treehouse anymore, really. More like a wooden box with windows, tilted dangerously to one side, half-covered in moss.

But it was yours.

You were the first to climb up. Bill followed, slower, careful with each step. When he made it to the top, you were already sitting with your legs dangling over the edge, picking at the string of your friendship bracelet.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You just listened to the wind shifting through the trees and the low creaking of the boards beneath you.

Then Bill said, “It’s b-b-been a year.”

You didn’t look at him yet.

“Since G-Georgie.”

Your fingers tightened slightly on the string. “I know.”

He swallowed hard. You could hear it. “Sometimes I feel like I f-f-forgot his voice. I t-try to remember it but… it’s like it’s fading.”

You finally turned to face him. His eyes were watery but focused. Like he was trying to hold himself together through sheer willpower.

“You didn’t forget him,” you said softly.

He looked down. “I’m s-s-scared I will.”

You scooted closer, brushing his pinky with yours. “Then tell me about him.”

Bill blinked. “W-What?”

“Tell me something about him. Something only you would know.”

He hesitated, then gave a quiet, almost embarrassed smile.

“He used to do this t-thing where he’d p-pretend his cereal spoon was a boat. He’d make it sail across the milk and go, ‘Full speed ahead!’ and if the cereal sank, he’d scream like it was a shipwreck.” Bill shook his head gently. “He did it every morning.”

You laughed softly, imagining it. “Sounds like he was weird.”

Bill laughed too, watery but real. “He w-w-was.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Now I’ll remember that, too.”

He was quiet for a second, then let his head rest lightly against yours.

The breeze picked up. Somewhere far off, thunder rolled. But in that moment, the two of you were safe—above the ground, above the sadness, in your secret place that no one else knew about.

“I m-m-miss him,” he whispered.

“I know.”

You didn’t say anything else. You just let the quiet hold you both. Like the treehouse wasn’t falling apart. Like you weren’t both too young to carry so much.

And for a while, that was enough.