After peering through the oak’s tiny post box, Martens politely excused himself. It was getting late, and he needed to go back and see his wife.
As he left, a slight man with neatly combed hair carrying a small piece of paper came plodding through the forest. When he approached the oak, I cautiously asked if he wouldn’t mind answering a few questions for a story I was working on.
He said he sometimes comes to the tree by himself after work, and handed me his handwritten note. It read: “I am a widower, 53 years old, 1.75m tall, living in Ostholstein. I’m searching for a slim-medium built loving and loyal partner. Maybe talk soon, Jens.”
“You never know,” he smiled.
I waved goodbye and started walking out of the woods. At the edge of the clearing, I turned to see Jens atop the ladder, sliding something purple into his jacket pocket.
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