The town was ordinary, nothing like the grand place her mother often romanticized.
Her mother's occupation wasn't something to boast about, nor was it a topic to bring up in polite conversation. Most of her time was spent in brothels or bars, managing her workers with a sharp tongue and an iron hand.
Abby, however, preferred to escape. She spent her days in the solitude of a barren field, dotted with grass and crowned by a single, towering tree wet with mountain dew. It was her sanctuary, a quiet place where she could play, catch crickets, and forget the vulgarity of her mother's world. She would only return home when it was time for lunch or dinner.
She was a lonely child, but she preferred her loneliness to the chaos of her home.
With a sigh, she tied together another bundle of sticks to form a doll. Each day she created a new one, and although most weren't sturdy enough to last, she cherished the few that endured. They were her only friends.
Years passed, and the tree became her haven. One crisp afternoon, when she was ten, she went to her usual spot beneath the tree and found someone already there.
It was a boy, about her age but dressed in fine clothes that spoke of wealth and status—far beyond anything Abby had ever known. His vest and trousers were of the highest quality, and his posture radiated arrogance.
He looked up at her, his eyes a piercing blue, colder than the ocean she'd only heard about. A wicked glint danced in his gaze.
"What are you?" he spat with disdain.
She frowned, taken aback. "You mean who?" she corrected.
"Peasants aren't who—they're what," he said with a sneer.
She shifted uncomfortably, feeling the sting of his words. "That's my tree you're sitting under. I'd like to be alone, please," she said, trying to remain polite.
He arched an amused brow. "Your tree? Do you even know who owns this land?"
Abby shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing. "No… but—"
"But nothing," he interrupted, his voice as sharp as his glare. "For a peasant to claim my land as theirs takes an impressive amount of gall."
His repeated use of the word "peasant" made Abby's stomach churn. "Could you not call me that? I don't like it. If this land is yours, I apologize. But may I still use the tree?" she asked, her tone as measured as she could manage.
"No," he said, his voice colder than before. "I despise people of low birth tainting my property."
Abby's breath caught as she noticed her stick dolls at his feet—shattered. He held her favorite in his hand, the one she had spent hours perfecting.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice trembling as tears welled in her eyes.
"I've done nothing to you. Why would you be so cruel?" she cried, her tears now streaming down her cheeks.
He sneered, his expression hard as stone. "You don't deserve kindness. You don't deserve sympathy. You don't deserve anything from me," he said, smashing the last stick doll against the tree trunk. "You are nothing."
Abby's heart clenched, the pain overwhelming. She turned and ran, the bitter wind cutting her cheeks, her sobs carried away with the morning dew. His cold, unyielding eyes burned into her back as she fled.
After that day, she began to time his visits. He came every Friday, like clockwork. So, she avoided the tree on Fridays, vowing to never cross his path again.