In the heart of the gray city, where streets crossed like scars on tired skin, stood the Golden Trees. No one knew who had planted them, or how long their gilded branches had defied time and pollution. Their leaves, thin as ancient coins, rustled in the wind with an almost human song, a melody that seemed to whisper: « Stay. You are home now. »
Newcomers—souls weary from endless journeys, borders crossed in shadow, hopes carried like burdens—always spotted them first. Their gleaming trunks, streaked with luminous veins, shone even in the darkest night, guiding hesitant steps toward the town square. It was said their roots ran deep, down to the heart of the earth, where the dreams of past migrants lay dormant. Their fruits, round and golden, never truly fell. They waited to be plucked by a trembling hand, a hand that still dared to believe.
Lena arrived on a winter evening, her fingers numb, her heart tight with cold and fear. She followed the glow, like a child chasing a firefly in the dark. When she touched the bark of the first tree, an unexpected warmth spread through her, climbing from her arm to her shoulder, then her heart. « Take it, » the wind whispered. She picked a fruit. Its skin was smooth, warm, as if the sun itself had kissed it. When she bit into it, a taste of honey and childhood memories exploded on her tongue. It wasn’t the sweetness that surprised her, but the sudden certainty: she was no longer invisible.
Around her, other figures drew near, hesitant. A man with eyes shadowed by exhaustion, a woman holding a sleeping child, an elderly couple with gnarled hands. Each reached out, each received. The fruits never dwindled. And slowly, faces relaxed, shoulders straightened. The Golden Trees didn’t just provide nourishment. They offered a promise: « Here, you can grow again. »
Over time, Lena learned their secret. The trees didn’t grow because of soil or water, but because of the stories entrusted to them. Each tale of crossing, each tear shed against their bark, each laugh shared in their shade made them grow a little more, their branches stretching as if to embrace the entire city. They were the silent guardians of those who had no words left, the mute witnesses of new beginnings.
One morning, Lena returned with a seed in her palm, a seed she had found at the foot of the tree, like a gift. « For the next one, » she whispered as she planted it near the cracked sidewalk. She knew that one day, another traveler would see it glow. And in turn, they would understand: hope is not a destination, but a root we plant together.