There’s been an emptiness since I walked away from Noel on Monday. I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t believe that anything he said was untrue. He was so genuine, so raw and open with me … how can any of it have been a ploy to get my trust? And what did he think he was going to gain out of it anyway? I’ve pored over the books I bought about growing Christmas trees and nothing in them contradicts any of the advice he gave me. In fact, most of the things he said are actually more sensible than what’s written in the books, and I keep thinking that I should swallow my pride and go over there and talk it through. I definitely miss him enough to believe him, especially when I think about the look of bewilderment and rejection on his face at the bridge the other day, which is stuck in my mind like a screensaver – it pops up whenever I’m inactive for a few moments.

Thinking about the bridge makes me think of the river and what Noel said about it flooding. It was frozen solid a couple of days ago, but with all this snow and rain … I’ve pulled my boots on before I’ve finished the thought. There’s no way that river can cope with this deluge of water. I shrug my coat on again, open the door, and immediately regret it. I have to hold the door with both hands to stop the wind crashing it shut again.

Outside, the weather is worse than it sounds from inside. The coat proves completely useless in rain this heavy because I’m soaked through before I’ve even reached the gate. The trees are obscured by a wet haze as I follow the track, which is running with so much water that it flops over the tops of my wellies within a few steps.

I know something’s severely wrong from the sound of rushing water. It’s so different from the usual gentle trickle of the stream. This is a thundering, pounding gush that reverberates through the earth itself, and I stop in horror as I round the corner and get to the bridge.

The stream is no longer a stream. It’s a crashing, swirling river, and the banks have burst.

I remember what Noel said on that day we crossed the trickling little stream on the way to the apple tree, about how it has never flooded, but it would be a disaster if it did. About how it would drown the Balsams and the Blue spruces. About how I’d lose them all.