When I was a small child, before the darkness consumed my life, I had two friends. One, a ghost, who has a whole other story to do her justice. Two, the boy who lived in the trees.

My house, and the others near it, was surrounded by a thin layer of trees that stood on the bank of a river. Beyond them were hills and beyond the hills was a city. But from the point of view of my bedroom window, my house was surrounded by trees.

That’s where he would be. Outside the window at home or school, on my way to the shops or the park; he stayed high above the ground, the complete opposite of me.

He always reminded me of Tarzan, or Peter Pan, probably because I always saw him surrounded in a blur of green and I could never tell if he was flying like a fairy or just swinging like a monkey. He used to wave at me, every time I saw him. I never waved back. I suppose I was too scared or maybe I wasn’t curious enough. Not once did I believe he wasn’t real.

Was he real? No one else confirmed that he was, but then, I never told anyone about him. Why should I? He always waved at me, followed me, smiled at me. That had never happened before. So why did I feel so troubled?

The answer is that he was an anomaly. Like most things in life, he was too good to be true. He never made sense, always disappearing as soon as I blinked. But, for a few precious years, he was my friend, my companion, my saviour. He was the light at the end of the tunnel that was my childhood. There will always be a place in my heart for the boy who lived in the trees.