"I wasn’t always like this — brittle, tired, and quietly aching. I once stood tall, my canopy lush and wide, offering cool shade to those who passed beneath me. I’ve seen lovers whisper beneath my branches, children climb with laughter in their eyes, and birds weaving homes between my leaves.

But now, my limbs feel dry. Some of my branches are bare too early in the season, and the wind no longer tickles me — it scrapes. I still try. I still hold on to what green I have left. But something beneath the bark has changed. A sickness, slow and silent, has taken hold."