The notices are many and forbidding: 
‘Trees are endangered species. Stay behind the viewing rail’.  
‘Do not touch the glass’.  
‘Transgressors will be prosecuted’.

The trees in question are in Section 29, at the Museum’s vast tree walk, growing behind a plate glass shield. Every forest has been classified as endangered and out of bounds to all except experts. This is the closest any ordinary soul can get to the real thing. Nothing, though, can diminish the beauty of their mahogany and russet bark, the sun on the leaves. The tree walk is sheltered and hot but beyond the glass there is breeze, and the leaves’ muted rustling is a gentle, continuous muzak, a shadow of the real thing. Children stand around me, mouths open, faces raised towards the height and majesty. None of them will ever get to climb a tree the way I once had.

I’ve spent some while walking and admiring. Now it’s time, and I’m unexpectedly nervous. Would I be able to achieve my goal before I’m thrown out? Or worse? In long years of hoping, I’ve never allowed thoughts of rejection to take root, so I must not do it now. 
I reach out towards the rich green glory and rest my hand on the glass. For a brief moment I fancy the branches shiver out towards me. 
 
The Museum’s alarm klaxons out just above my head. It runs for 20 seconds, leaving ears ringing. The sharp command that follows is even louder.

“Woman in the tree walk. Step away from the window. Repeat, step away from the window.”

I lower my hand and retreat. Four armed guards, dressed in black, appear as if by magic. Four? For a 90-year-old?

One either side of me, they grasp an arm each. A third walks in front and the fourth behind.

Conversation dies around me. Children stare, adult visitors look away, embarrassed, as I’m marched, via the security scanning unit, to the Section Director’s room, where I sit on an uncomfortable recycled rubber chair.

I’ve no idea what to expect, but I know it won’t start with social niceties. The Director regards me silently, unblinking, from inside an aura of stern authority. I stare back, hungrily soaking up this long-imagined moment - her face, her eyes, her hair, the way she sits. Absurdly, I suddenly think; is she getting a bit old for unrelieved black? A touch of cream silk at the neck perhaps. A nice cerise scarf. If the opportunity arises, I might suggest it.

She breaks the silence first.

“Name?”  She spreads slender hands flat on the table, so I can clearly see the delicate rings tattooed around every finger except one. Nine rings. Nearly there for Director-General role. She’s done well.

“Ruth Pargetter.” I give my birth name, not my acquired name.

Is there recognition? Or is hope making me see something that’s not there? 

She frowns. “Rank?”

“Emeritus Director-General, Section Four.” I spread my own hands on the table, with my own, complete set of ten, faded tattoo rings.

Her face colours, just a little, her chin is raised. I have the highest rank allowed anywhere, accorded respect even after disengagement from office, but as I have never operated in this section, she would know nothing of my career.

“Your reason for being here?”

“Partly, the trees.” 

“Partly?”

“I was born here.”

Her eyes flicker, and my heart lifts. She probably has not thought about her birthplace or her childhood for years, and there is always a chance she’s received memory readjustment. She stays composed.

“Director-General, you must know, more than anyone, not to touch anything in this Museum. You’re not young. Your rank might just keep you from appearing before the Prescriptor, which would inevitably be disastrous for you. Assuming you don’t want to face that particular disgrace, why you are really here”

“To see you.” 
“Me?”  
I nod. “I have something for you.”

No-one gives or receives presents anymore. It spoils the true equality of life. (Rule 57). Anyone under Quinquagenarian would know nothing about gifts just for pleasure. Older Sexagenarians might recollect. The Director, I know, is 65 now, would have been a child in that changeover decade, and definitely received ‘gifts’. I smile, reach into my satchel and pull out a package, laying it on the table between us.

“What’s this?” Her voice sharpens. “I can’t receive a gift, neither can you make one.”

“I’m returning your property; it’s taken me a long time to find you. No action can be taken against you for accepting back your own property - unless the rules have changed.” 

She looks at the name on the package. I wonder if she can still read script, not many can now, and fewer can write it, but everyone has a transcription converter. I still read, of course. And write. I grieve sometimes for simple delights young people will never know and, in secret, bless my God for allowing me to know them.

“Emily Pargetter” she reads aloud, looks up at me, eyes widening. 
She opens the envelope and pulls out the first paper. 
“A birth certificate. My birth certificate?”

I don’t need to explain further. She knows the impossibilities of finding a child once they are taken. She tips out childish drawings, faded photos, studies my face intently, and reaches across the table to clasp my hand.

“You’ve taken such a risk.” She gestures, “All this will be frowned upon.”

“It’s not illegal to have it. Not yet anyway. I was transferred to Section Four at the time,” I fight to keep my voice calm, “as soon as they took you, and wasn’t allowed to leave. It was only when my disengagement took place that I could travel. My only option was to save everything I could, and hope one day I might find you.”

She acknowledges this, knowing the rules as well as I do. “I was told you wanted me to go, and children don’t have a voice. I’ve always wondered.” Picking up  one of the photographs, she exclaims:  “Oh, I’d forgotten about the swing, it was such fun!” She shakes her head, looks  up at me, eyes alight.

I take a deep breath. “We have so little time, so I must tell you I’m to go into Detachment Unit One very soon. They need my living quarters for a worker.” Her shoulders sag as my words sink in.  “My deterioration might be quite fast once I’m fully detached. This was my only chance to give you all this, and to see you properly after all this time. You won’t get travel to other sections until you’re disengaged, and that could be another 15 years.”

She studies again the photos of her as a tiny child, looks up. “I’ve never given normal birth; the progeny I’ve created won’t have a birth certificate and I don’t know who, or where they are. I think about it, often.”

I stroke the hand that still clutches mine. “We’ve all had to accept this life, embrace and relish what’s enjoyable. I’ve been hearing about your amazing achievements. You’re a remarkable woman, and I’m proud to have been a part of your life, however brief.”

I fasten my satchel, back straight, voice brisk. “Now. What’s risky for you right this minute is that I’ve been in here almost too long for a normal interrogation; you are required to report me for violating Museum rules and we will have to see what comes from that.”

A silence, and then she nods. “I have no choice but to report it - using your acquired name, of course.” She tilts her head. “I think you missed breakfast to come here and were taken with dizziness. It happens occasionally. The atmosphere in the tree walk maintains the trees but doesn’t suit everyone. Your status allows you much grace.” 
She stands. “Let’s go and eat together, then to keep to the rulebook, the clinician will check you’re recovered before you leave.” 

She smiles. That smile I have never forgotten.

Back to short story competition 2025 winners