The Olive Tree

In a small village tucked between rolling hills, Zara inherited her grandfather’s olive grove.

The trees were old, gnarled, and full of history — each branch a witness to decades of family life, laughter, and arguments long forgotten.

Zara had returned to the village after years in the city. Her career had been demanding, her friendships transient, and her heart weighed down by endless noise. She hoped that the olive grove would bring her peace.

The first morning, she walked among the trees, running her fingers along the rough bark.

The scent of the earth was heavy and grounding, a stark contrast to the sterile concrete of her city apartment.

But peace didn’t come immediately. The grove reminded her of family feuds she had tried to forget — fights over land, inheritance, and old grudges that had split her family apart.

Her cousin, Yasir, who still lived in the village, appeared that morning. He had been tending the grove while she was away.

“Back from the city, huh?” he asked, voice cautious.

“Yes,” Zara replied. “I… thought I could fix this place. Maybe even myself.”

Yasir shook his head. “This grove doesn’t need fixing. It needs patience. Just like people.”

Over the next weeks, Zara worked in the grove alongside Yasir.

They pruned olive trees, removed weeds, and repaired the old stone walls that had crumbled over time.

Slowly, conversations began. At first, they were awkward — polite questions about the weather, complaints about stubborn goats, and debates over which trees bore the best fruit.

Then, one evening, while resting under the largest olive tree, Zara spoke softly:

“Do you ever regret the fights we had? The ones that drove us apart?”

Yasir looked at her, eyes reflecting the sunset. “Every day. But regret doesn’t help. We can’t change the past. We can only grow from it.”

Zara nodded, feeling a warmth she hadn’t felt in years.

The olive grove began to thrive under their care, much like their slowly mending relationship.

Neighbors noticed the change. The once tense family atmosphere softened. People visited, bringing stories, laughter, and even tears — but the grove became a place of gathering instead of conflict.

One day, Zara found a small sapling growing under the old olive tree. She looked at Yasir and smiled.

“It’s a new tree,” she said. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

Yasir nodded. “Or maybe it’s a reminder. Peace grows slowly, just like roots.”

Months later, during the olive harvest, the family gathered.

Zara and Yasir led the picking together, laughing as they shared memories of childhood games under the trees, and old grievances dissolved into gentle conversation.

By the end of the day, the grove was full of life, laughter, and the smell of ripe olives.

Zara realized that peace doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes, it comes quietly — in the work shared, the time spent together, and the courage to nurture something, even after years of neglect.

And in that olive grove, she finally understood that peace, like the roots of the oldest tree, can take decades to grow — but once it does, it endures.