Once,
the tree was only a whisper—
a dream cradled in the arms of soil.
A tiny seed, trembling,
yet daring to believe in sunlight.

Storms came early.
Winds screamed names it didn't understand.
But it stayed—
letting its roots sink deep
into the quiet ache of the earth.
The soil, ancient and tender,
carried centuries of silent sacrifices.
It held the tree like a promise
never meant to break.

Its branches stretched—
not for the sky,
but for something softer,
maybe hope.
Each knot in its wood,
a story of pain swallowed instead of spoken.
Each resin drip—
a memory stuck in the hollows of its chest.

Still, it stood.
Beasts circled.
Axes whispered through the leaves.
But the soil whispered louder—
“Grow. Even if it hurts.
Even if they try to break you.
Be so strong they forget how to cut you.”

But not every root finds water.
Not every seed feels sun.
Some trees grow in shadows so deep
they start thinking darkness is home.

Some fall.
Not from weakness,
but from carrying too much silence.

And when all that’s left
is a stump in the clearing—
they call it the end.
But beneath the surface,
the roots still hum.
They remember.
They ache.
They whisper the moments
when the tree wanted to give in—
but didn't.
Not yet.

Because it thought of the soil.
The quiet hands that held it.
The love that never asked to be seen,
but was always there.

It wanted to stay.
It truly did.
But sometimes, the rain never comes.
And sometimes,
the weight of invisible pain
is heavier than a storm.

And still—
even as it fell,
it thought:
If I leave,
what will happen to the soil?
Will it blame itself
for a drought it couldn’t stop?

Because trees don’t just die.
Sometimes,
they break their own hearts
to keep from breaking their roots.