Branching Out - Cody Dayton, The Rowan

Cody swears the Rowan is doing this on purpose.
He’s worn glasses most of his life, and for most of that time, he’s gotten used to having them mysteriously vanish when he’s at Robin’s house.
To be fair, he’s kind of missed it. The Rowan stopped taking his glasses after Robin left, and it felt like just another reminder that things were not, and might never be, the same again. Now that Robin is home, the Rowan is making up for that. And Cody is currently out of spares and out of patience.
“I can’t see.”
It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t in the middle of a draft edit. There’s a big literary agent convention the library will be hosting in a month, and he’s hoping to have a clean draft ready by then.
But that’s not going to happen if he can’t see what he’s doing.
Cody is a traditionalist at heart. He prefers real books to their digital counterparts, always writes his first draft in a notebook, and he likes to edit on paper, with a red ink pen.
It works well for him. But it only works if he can actually see what’s on the paper. He could probably go home, get his laptop, and bump up the font size, but it’s the principle of the thing.
“I know you’re just having fun. But I really need those.” Cody has no idea how to explain the concept of glasses to a tree. He’s sure it only steals them because it doesn’t realize they’re a necessary part of his life. To the Rowan, they’re probably just the equivalent of Christmas ornaments or something, a thing that can be put on and taken off and doesn’t affect the wearer at all. He supposes he’s lucky it respects sweatshirts, scarves, and other articles of clothing he’s hung up or laid aside while he’s in the house.
He can find words for almost anything, but he’s completely at a loss for this. He turns around and heads for the door, he’ll just get his computer after all.
He feels a tap on his shoulder, then turns around to see a branch holding out a pair of glasses with tortoiseshell rims. He hasn’t had that kind since eighth grade.
He holds them up to his face just in case. They’re too small and the prescription is almost as bad as having no glasses at all.
Wow. I didn’t realize my eyes changed that much since then.
They’re not what he needs, but it is the thought that counts. “Thanks for that.” He tucks the glasses into his pocket and goes into the kitchen to make a mug of tea.
When he comes back to the living room, seven pairs of glasses are laying on top of his stack of papers next to the pen. He didn’t even remember losing the purple ones to the Rowan.
He fishes out his most current set and slips them on, then picks up the draft.
“Thank you.”
The leaves carefully fingerspell the words Y-O-U W-E-L-C-O-M-E.