“My 76-Year-Old Grandpa Took Me Into the Woods Every Day and Made Me Undress Until I Was Half-Naked. But One Day, My Mother Secretly Followed Us and Heard Strange Screams Coming From Deep Inside the Forest. When She Got Closer and Saw What We Were Actually Doing, Her Heart Couldn’t Take It. She Fell to Her Knees and Burst Into Tears…”

I sat on a rock, shaking so badly that I could barely hold the towel he gave me.

“I’m never doing that again,” I whispered.

He sat beside me.

“You don’t have to decide today.”

Yet the following morning, he returned.

And somehow, I went with him again.

Not because I enjoyed those trips. Not because I understood what we were doing.

I went because I loved him, because he had asked me to trust him, and because he seemed to be carrying a burden he couldn’t explain.

Over the following weeks, our routine became painfully familiar.

We drove into the countryside. We followed the narrow trail. I changed into my spare clothes, and we approached the stream.

Sometimes we crossed a shallow section to reach the opposite bank. Sometimes we measured the water and examined the stones. Other days, we worked on the path leading toward an old wooden bench hidden behind a large tree.