In the village of Eldrow, an ancient tree stood at the center of the square. It bore no fruit, changed with no season, and made no sound. Still, people called it the Listening Tree.

Villagers whispered secrets to its bark, begged for answers, or left offerings at its roots. Some claimed it healed their hearts. Others said it was just old wood.

Mira didn’t believe in magical trees. But after her mother died and everyone pretended life was normal, she went there to scream.

“It hurts,” she whispered. “And no one listens.”

She came back the next week. “I failed my math test. No one noticed.”

Again. “Dad doesn’t talk anymore. He just stares.”

One night, Mira found Mr. Vens, the old historian, leaning against the trunk. She asked, “Does it really listen?”

He didn’t open his eyes. “It listens better than people do.”

“Then why won’t it talk back?”

He gave a tired smile. “Words are wasted on those who do not listen.”

Mira frowned. “But I’m listening.”

“Exactly.”

After that, she stopped speaking to the tree and started listening. To her father’s quiet grief, her classmates’ hidden pain, the world’s soft cracks.

Years passed. Mira grew older, quieter. She visited the tree less.

Until one day, a younger girl came to scream.

Mira didn’t say a word.

She just sat down beside her. And listened.