The Keeper of Quiet Seasons
"In a valley where rivers curved like whispered secrets, there stood a being older than memory. Villagers called her the Keeper, though no one agreed on whether she was a woman who became a tree, or a tree that dreamed itself into a woman.
She watched everything.
In spring, her branches would bloom with tiny white flowers that carried the scent of forgotten childhoods. In summer, her leaves deepened into rich greens, and the wind through them sounded almost like a voice, humming lullabies no one remembered learning. Autumn brought small fruits, bittersweet, said to grant clarity to those brave enough to taste them. And in winter, though her crown thinned, her eyes never closed.
They said she saw not just what was, but what could have been.
A young traveler once came, restless and uncertain, standing before her tangled roots. He asked no question out loud, yet she answered anyway. A single leaf fell, landing in his hand. Inside its veins, he saw flashes of paths he had feared to take, and the quiet joy hidden within them.
When he looked up again, her expression had not changed. Calm. Endless. Patient. He left without speaking.
Years later, he returned, not to ask, but to thank. The valley was unchanged, the river still winding, the windmill still turning in slow circles. And there she was, rooted and watching, as if time had simply passed around her.
Some say she is still there, waiting for those who hesitate at the edge of their own lives.
And if you listen closely, standing where roots meet soil, you might hear her; not in words, but in the quiet certainty that you already know which path is yours."(Vito A.)
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