In a quiet village nestled between rolling hills and sleepy woods, there stood an ancient tree known simply as Emberroot. Each autumn, its leaves turned a fiery orange, glowing like lanterns against the crisp blue sky. Locals believed Emberroot had a soul—that it listened, remembered, and whispered stories to those who sat beneath its boughs.
One such listener was a woman named Maren, a retired school cook who had spent her life nourishing others. She came to Emberroot every morning with a thermos of cinnamon tea and a notebook. She didn’t write recipes anymore. Instead, she wrote what the leaves told her.
They spoke in rustles and sways, in the hush between breezes. One morning, as the sun filtered through the canopy like golden syrup, Maren heard a new tale: of a boy who once climbed the tree to escape a storm, only to find shelter not just from rain, but from sorrow. The tree had held him, warmed him, and when he descended, he was no longer afraid of the world.
Maren wrote that story down, then another, and another. Soon, her notebook was full of leaf-born memories—some hers, some borrowed from the tree’s long life. She began leaving pages tucked into the bark, and villagers started finding them: tales of comfort, courage, and quiet joy.
By winter, Emberroot stood bare, but its stories lingered. And Maren, with her tea and her pen, waited patiently for spring—not for new leaves, but for new whispers.
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