“The Last Tree”

Little Aahil stood by the cracked window of his classroom, staring at the horizon where the mountains used to be green. Now they looked like faded paintings — brown, dry, lifeless. The teacher’s voice floated through the hot air, but Aahil wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the single tree that still stood in the schoolyard.

It was an old neem tree — tall, stubborn, its leaves dusty but alive. Children used to play beneath it, their laughter filling the summer air. Now, most stayed inside; the heat outside was unbearable.

Aahil remembered how his grandmother used to tell him stories under that very tree. “The Earth breathes through her trees,” she would say, her wrinkled hand resting on his head. “If we take care of her, she’ll take care of us.”

But no one listened anymore.

Rain had not come for almost two years. Rivers had turned into long paths of cracked mud. People lined up every morning to collect a few buckets of water from government trucks. The sky that once danced with clouds now burned with dust.

Aahil’s father, once a farmer, had left for the city. “There’s nothing left to grow here,” he had said. “The soil is dead.” He promised to send money back, but months had passed, and only silence returned.

One evening, Aahil saw his mother kneeling by the last green patch near their hut — a few dying plants. She poured the last of their stored water over them, whispering, “Grow, please… grow.” He didn’t say anything. He just watched. Even as her lips cracked from thirst, she still chose to feed the earth before herself.

The next morning, the government announced that the village would be evacuated. The heat wave was worsening, and wildfires were spreading from the nearby forest. The old neem tree, standing tall and unaware, seemed to shimmer in the sunlight — like it knew its time was near.

That evening, as everyone packed what little they owned, Aahil slipped away. He ran to the schoolyard, his feet burning on the ground, his heart pounding. The tree stood there quietly, its shadow stretched thin against the dying sun.

He placed his palm on its rough bark. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll come back for you.”

He dug a small hole at its roots and buried a folded note — one he had written in his notebook days ago:

> “When the rain returns, I’ll plant more trees. You won’t be alone.”

Then he hugged it, feeling the coolness of the bark against his cheek. It was the only cool thing left in his world.

That night, the fires reached the outskirts of the village. People ran, carrying their children, their memories, their fear. Aahil and his mother joined them, walking into the dark as flames lit up the sky behind them.

They never looked back.

Years passed. Cities grew, the heat worsened, and people forgot the smell of rain. Aahil grew too — from a quiet boy into a man who refused to forget. He studied environmental science, determined to understand what had gone wrong, and how to fix it.

When he returned to his village ten years later, it was barely recognizable — a wasteland of ash and silence. The neem tree was gone. Only a blackened stump remained.

He knelt beside it, brushing away the dust. His fingers found something buried beneath — a small piece of paper, faded but still there. His own note.

> “When the rain returns, I’ll plant more trees.”

Aahil smiled through his tears. The earth beneath the ashes was soft again — damp. Somewhere far away, thunder rolled. The rain was coming back.

He dug into the soil, his hands trembling, and planted a single seedling beside the old roots. “You see, Grandma,” he whispered, “the Earth remembers kindness, too.”

The first drops of rain began to fall, tapping gently against the ground — soft, forgiving, alive.

And there, in the heart of a dying land, life began again.