Noisy Oak
M. N.
Nestled between rolling hills and ancient forests, there lived an elderly woman named Eliza. She was known throughout the village for her peculiar habit of talking to the trees. The villagers found it endearing but odd, and they often smiled and shook their heads when she walked by, murmuring to the oak, the willow, or the birch.
One crisp autumn day, a young girl named Mia, curious and bright-eyed, decided to follow Eliza on her walk. She kept a respectful distance, watching as the old woman approached an enormous, gnarled oak tree at the edge of the village.
Eliza placed her hand on the tree’s rough bark and whispered something that Mia couldn’t hear. The wind rustled through the leaves, carrying a soft, melodic hum. Mia’s curiosity got the best of her, and she stepped closer, careful not to make a sound.
The old woman looked up and noticed Mia. With a warm smile, she beckoned her over. “Come, child. The trees have stories to tell, but only if you listen.”
Mia hesitated but then approached the tree. Eliza guided her to place her hand on the bark, just as she had. “What do you hear?” Eliza asked.
Mia closed her eyes, concentrating. At first, all she could hear was the wind and distant sounds of the village. But then, slowly, something different emerged—a soft, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat.
“I hear a heartbeat,” Mia said, opening her eyes.
Eliza nodded. “Yes. Every tree has a heartbeat, a story of its own. This old oak has witnessed many seasons, seen many lives come and go. It holds the wisdom of the ages.”
Mia’s eyes widened. “Can it really tell stories?”
Eliza smiled gently. “Not in the way you might think. The stories aren’t spoken. They are felt, in the way the leaves rustle or how the branches sway. Each one is a memory, a fragment of time.”
As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow across the village, Mia and Eliza stood together, listening to the oak’s quiet murmurs. For the first time, Mia felt a profound connection to the natural world around her, a sense of continuity and belonging that she had never experienced before.
When Eliza finally turned to go, Mia stayed behind a moment longer. She placed her hand on the oak’s bark once more and whispered, “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
In that simple gesture, Mia felt a bond not just with the tree, but with the village, with Eliza, and with the countless lives that had touched this place over the years.
From that day forward, Mia walked with a new understanding. She became known as the village storyteller, not just of people, but of the trees and the land. And though she never spoke directly with the trees, she carried their silent stories within her, sharing them with anyone who would listen.
Eliza watched from afar, her heart warmed by the knowledge that the stories of the oak, and of all the trees, would continue to be told through the eyes of a young girl who had learned to listen.
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