The Tree That Remembered

There was a tree at the edge of the village — tall, old, and covered in deep, twisted bark. To most people, it was just a tree. But to Sarfaraz, it was everything.

As a child, Sarfaraz would run barefoot through the fields every afternoon after school, past the fading fence, and toward that old tree. He would drop his schoolbag at its roots, lie back against the trunk, and talk. About school. About dreams. About the tiny secrets only a lonely boy would share with something that could not reply.

He called it “Baba Tree.”

Sometimes he laughed under its shade. Sometimes he cried. And sometimes, when the wind was just right, it felt like Baba Tree was listening.

Years passed.

Life pulled Sarfaraz away — first to the city, then to a bigger life, then into silence. Time changed him, like wind smooths stone. He forgot the feel of earth between his toes, the sound of wind through leaves, the way the sun made the tree’s shadow stretch like open arms.

But time did not change Baba Tree.

One grey afternoon, nearly twenty years later, Sarfaraz returned to the village. His mother had passed. He came quietly, like a guest in his own childhood.

The house felt smaller. The streets unfamiliar.

But the field…

The field still led to the edge.

And there it stood.

Still waiting.

Baba Tree.

He walked slowly toward it, heart heavy with years and memories. The grass rustled beneath his shoes. The wind whispered — soft, almost like a sigh.

When he reached the tree, he placed his hand on the bark. It was rough, cracked, ancient.

And warm.

As if it remembered.

He sat down, exactly where he used to. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then… a breeze stirred the branches above him. A single leaf fell and landed in his lap.

He picked it up.

And then it began.

He heard it — not in words, but in memory. The tree spoke without speaking.

“Do you remember the marble you lost in the roots?”

“Do you remember the song you hummed every Thursday?”

“Do you remember the tear you buried here the day your father left?”

His breath caught.

The wind shifted again, and suddenly the trunk’s grooves looked like etched faces, smiling. He closed his eyes and saw a younger version of himself, spinning in circles, arms wide, laughing at the sky.

Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“I never forgot you,” he whispered.

And for a second — just a second — it felt like the tree nodded.

From that day, Sarfaraz returned every year. Not for anyone else. Not even for himself. But for Baba Tree.

He brought books and read aloud. He brought music and played it low. Sometimes, he brought his own children, who didn’t understand why their father cried while sitting under a tree.

But they didn’t need to.

Because they began to talk to the tree too.

One day, much later, Sarfaraz came with grey in his beard and a cane in his hand. He sat under the tree with more difficulty than before.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and smiled.

“You’re still here,” he said softly.

“So am I.”

A breeze passed.

Leaves rustled like applause.

He stayed there for hours — quiet, content, resting.

And when his heart stopped beating, the tree didn’t shake. It stood still. As if holding its breath.

In time, villagers found him. And under the tree, they placed a simple plaque:

Here sat Sarfaraz — the boy who talked, and the tree that listened.

Every year, children still visit Baba Tree.

They laugh.

They cry.

They talk.

And if you sit very still,

and close your eyes just enough…

you might hear the wind whisper back.

The End.