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I started spending my lunch breaks in an old cemetery to escape my job. Yesterday, I realized someone has been leaving letters specifically for me.

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My office is right next to St. Jude’s—a 19th-century cemetery hidden behind an overgrown iron fence. Six months ago, burned out from staring at spreadsheets, I started sneaking in during my 45-minute lunch break. It was quiet, peaceful, and the only place nearby where no one asked me for anything. Eventually, I picked a spot: an old, flat mossy headstone tucked under an enormous oak tree, completely hidden from the main walking path. The tombstone belonged to a man named Arthur, who died in 1894. For months, it was just my secret spot. I’d eat my sandwich, listen to music, and enjoy the silence. Three weeks ago, I noticed something odd. A tiny, weathered stone was sitting on top of Arthur’s headstone, holding down a folded piece of yellowed paper. Curious, I opened it. Written in black ink was a single line: *"The noise outside the gate never changes, but the silence in here is always different."* I figured it was just poetry left by another quiet visitor or someone visiting a nearby grave. But out of impulse, I grabbed a pen from my pocket and wrote on the back: *"True. It's the only place I can hear myself think."* I folded it back up, put the rock on top, and left. The next day at lunch, the note was gone. In its place was a fresh piece of paper: *"You sit on Arthur's side today. He doesn't mind, but the oak tree casts better shade two graves to the left."* My stomach did a quick flip. Someone wasn't just dropping notes randomly. They were watching me. For the past two weeks, we’ve been passing notes back and forth. The stranger never meets me in person, but they know things. They commented on the red jacket I wore on Tuesday. They left a recommended book title on Thursday. Yesterday, they left a tiny pocket knife with a note saying, *"For the overgrown ivy on Arthur's name."* I went back today with a note asking who they were and why they were hiding. When I reached the oak tree, there was no paper under the rock. Instead, written directly in the damp soil beside Arthur’s grave, carved fresh with a stick, were four words: *"Look up. Branch three."* I looked straight up into the dense leaves of the old oak tree. Sitting thirty feet up on a thick branch, dangling their legs in the air with a notebook in their lap, was a girl in a dark green jacket, waving down at me with a quiet smile. submitted by /u/Disastrous-Layer-202 [link] [comments]

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