A Lonely Tree Between Worlds

Somewhere beyond the last breath of wind, in a valley long forgotten by even the oldest maps, stands a tree. It’s not quite on the earth, but not really in the sky either. It grows in between. Its roots sink into thick, milky mist, and its branches reach up to the clouds, as if trying to ask them something.

This tree isn’t ordinary. It didn’t grow from a seed, but from a question. Long ago, someone — a person, a bird, maybe just the wind — asked the world a question too deep, too honest. The earth didn’t know how to answer, so instead, it let the question take root. That’s how this tree came to be.

Each spring, it feels like its leaves are words. Each autumn, every falling leaf — another attempt at an answer. But no one really understands its language. Except, maybe, an old shepherd who once sat by its roots, laid his hand on the bark, and whispered, 

You’re searching too, aren’t you?

Around it, mountains stand in silence, wrapped in mist, unsure themselves where their peaks begin. They keep their secrets well. Only this tree dares to reach for them — its branches like fingers trying to grasp something eternal in the fragility of clouds.

At night, it remembers the dreams of those who came near. Forgotten names, lost directions, quiet prayers. It doesn’t need to move to travel. It journeys inward — a living lighthouse standing on the edge between what is known and what’s been left behind.

And maybe, someday, someone will ask the world another question. And something else will grow. A forest, full of trees like this one — made of silence, searching, and truth. And then this tree won’t be alone. It will be the first. The one who began.