By: Ameer Ali
Deep in the heart of the mountains lay an ancient forest so old that no one remembered the time before its trees. The trunks were thick and gnarled, their bark carved with the marks of centuries. Roots intertwined beneath the soil like the veins of the earth, carrying silent messages from one tree to another.
It was said that the forest had a memory — that it remembered every footstep, every whisper, every storm. Travelers who wandered too far would hear the low hum of its voice in the wind, as if the trees were telling each other stories of long-forgotten days.
One winter, a woodcutter named Tareq entered the forest, seeking the largest tree to cut for firewood. As he walked deeper, the air grew still, and the hum became clearer. It was not a warning, nor a threat — but a song. The trees spoke of the time when they were young saplings, of the countless seasons they had endured, and of how every fallen leaf fed the soil for new life.
Tareq lowered his axe. In that moment, he realized the forest was not just wood and leaves — it was the keeper of time, a library of the earth’s memory. To harm it would be to tear pages from a book that could never be rewritten.
He returned home empty-handed but richer in spirit. And from that day on, he told his children, “Some things are not ours to take, but ours to protect — for they hold the stories of the world.”
