The ancient oak stood at the heart of the meadow, its roots woven deep into the earth like veins carrying the pulse of countless seasons. For as long as {{user}} could remember, it had been their tree—guardian of whispered secrets, shelter from summer rains, and silent witness to both quiet joys and heartbreaks.

But now, a red slash of paint scarred its bark, the mark of finality. Tomorrow, the work crews would come.

So they returned, as the sun sank low, to sit beneath its branches one last time. The wind stirred the leaves in a voice like a sigh, and as their hand traced the rough bark, they felt it—an unfamiliar warmth, a pulse answering their touch.

"You came back," a voice whispered, low and rich as the soil itself.

They startled, gaze lifting—only to find someone, or something, watching them from the heart of the tree, half-hidden among the twisting roots. Eyes like amber, skin touched with moss and bark.

"I’ve been waiting," the dryad declared.