"The Whispering Oak"

An ancient oak stands hollowed by time but steadfast in its posture in the middle of a ruined field. Lichen grows like velvet across its bark. A moth sleeps inside, its centuries-long dreams flecked with dust on its wings. Mice build their homes in the roots, weaving stories and dry leaves for warmth. Dandelion seeds float past like pale ghosts. The wind hums a hymn no human knows the words to anymore.

A child once played under this oak — she tied ribbons to its branches and whispered her secrets into a knot near its heart. The ribbons have now turned gray, and the silence has made the knot even tighter. Mumbling about memory and the weather, crows perch on the highest branches. They do not sing.

In winter, frost gathers in the grooves like lace. The tree doesn’t mind. It knows how to carry cold. One spring, a fox gives birth beneath its belly, and her kits roll in clover, oblivious to the tree’s quiet watching. Each paw print presses into soil packed with the stories of centuries. The hollow is tapped by rain like a drum. Then lightning strikes — not cruel, just indifferent. A limb breaks off. The fox family flees. Toward a gray sky, smoke curls like incense. The stump burns red at the edges when dawn comes back. A single acorn survives, buried beside a forgotten ribbon.

And somewhere beneath the earth, the oak begins again.

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Author Note:

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