A name born from the old oak tree that stood in the center of town like a sentinel, its roots thick and ancient, weaving under the brick roads as if the whole place had been built atop its veins.

The tree’s trunk was massive, wide enough that it would take five grown men hand-to-hand to circle it. The bark was scarred with decades of initials and messages carved by restless kids. The branches reached skyward with stubborn strength, spreading so wide they shaded nearly the entire square in summer, as though holding Oakwood together by sheer will.

People swore the tree was older than the town itself. Farmers muttered that it kept storms at bay. Grandparents told children it had soaked up every secret the town had ever tried to bury—its rings etched with laughter, grief, betrayals, and promises.

When the wind rushed through its leaves, it sounded like voices whispering in a language no one could quite catch.

Most dismissed it as folklore.

But no one in Oakwood ignored the tree.

The square around it had been built with pride but little planning. Brick-paved streets bent around the oak’s base, forming a neat loop of civic buildings: town hall with its chipped stone steps, the post office with faded flags drooping in the coastal wind, and the library—grand in another age but now cracked and crumbling, its roof patched with tin.

Oakwood was too small for a movie theater but too proud to admit it was outdated.

It was the kind of place where everyone knew each other—too well. A broken porch light, a late-night argument, a child skipping school: nothing went unnoticed.

Lately, though, that closeness had curdled into something else.

A tension hung in the air like static before a storm.