It’s sitting alone in a clearing. Don’t ask it what’s nearby or what’s farther out. It cannot tell you. Don’t sit too close to its roots; You’ll scare it. Don’t stray too far away; It’ll forget who you are.

The tree is old. Faded. No, sorry. Fading. Brown branches scrubbed to black by the tedium of day-in-day-out. It holds feebly onto the last dying clumps of white flowers hanging onto its branches. A pool of withered petals gather around its floor, testimony to the tedium of day-in-day-out. 

Inside the tree is a library. Vast networks of wooden bookshelves wrap around the interior of the wide, dilapidated trunk. Books on every possible subject rest atop these shelves, from familiar cookbooks to the wildest of romance novels. Some books are shelved close to the ground while others sit high above. Do not ask for the latter. You will not be able to reach.

Amongst the magic of the books, in the middle of its chaos, sits a small, modest lady. Young, and yet old, somehow. Some say she is the woman to whom the tree—and everything—belong. Perhaps sometime, in a past life, they were one. She is silent. Writing. Smiling at some lines, tears flowing with others. 

She will look up at you every now and then. If she recognizes you, good. If not, leave her be. There are stories she is still penning, books still to be bound. Before the last flowers shed from her scarred branches. Before the shelves burn and all the books topple. She has more writing to do. Do not disturb her.