The Old Tree

At the mouth of the wood stands a tree.

Not the tallest, nor the widest, but the oldest.

At first glance, it is unremarkable. It stands much as every other tree in the forest does. Only those who truly see would know it has been there longer than the rest, for the signs are subtle.

No one remembers when the Old Tree first took root. Yet for as long as the forest has been inhabited, it has held the lanterns of those who have passed beneath its branches.

For it is here, at the mouth of the wood, that transformation begins.

Here the traveler leaves behind the path that carried them this far and steps willingly into the unknown. Some choose to leave the lantern that guided them to the forest's edge. Others exchange it for another, for not every light is meant to guide every journey.

The Old Tree keeps them all.

With each passing generation, it has stretched another branch toward the sky, making room for every lantern entrusted to its care. Its age is measured not in rings hidden beneath its bark, but in the weight of the lights it continues to carry.

Most travelers see only the lanterns.

But those who linger beneath its canopy begin to notice the branches.

And then they understand.

Some things do not grow old because of time.

They grow old because of all they have carried.