In a forgotten forest stood a peculiar tree. Its gnarled limbs reached outward like hands begging to be held. Its bark was scaly, torn apart by time. Patchy with moss refusing to take root. Tree bark that lied. And so the creatures called it the Lying Tree, one useless brute among the powerful oaks and elegant pines.
One quiet afternoon, the forest air was rich with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, and a rabbit hopped into view.
Hungry for company, the Lying Tree shook its dry leaves and coughed, “Why hello there. If you listen closely, I’m telling you I have the best fruit in the forest.”
So the rabbit hopped up into its boughs all nimble legs, eager for dessert. But when it reached what it thought was the tree’s strengthening heart, it found nothing. Not a single piece of fruit hung from those forked branches. The rabbit slumped down in disappointment; it had been lied to. Still, it stayed in the tree’s shade, and something miraculous happened. The tree’s branches shivered, and its bark actually felt warm against the chilly breeze.
The Lying Tree’s stories echoed through the forest, spinning tales of boundless acorns for squirrels, magical leaves for sparrows, and hidden fox truffles. Animals came, each drawn by whispered promises in the cool, damp air. With every visitor, its twisted shape softened, its aching roots loosened their grip on the earth, and its leaves quivered as though touched by a passing breeze.
The lies were only threads—and truth pulled until they snapped and unraveled.
One crisp autumn morning, when the forest smelled of earthy decay and new opportunity, a robin perched lightly on the lying tree’s branch. Its feathers glimmered in the soft sunlight as it chirped, “Why do you lie?”
The tree said nothing. Its leaves shivered against the misty air.
“Why do you lie?” the robin asked again, softer this time.
The bark cracked as it spoke. “Because I’m empty.”
The robin’s reply came as a gentle balm. “Not every tree blossoms or bears fruit. You hold the soil together with your roots. You shelter the weary and shade travelers from the sun. That is your gift.”
The words settled into the Lying Tree like rain soaking a parched forest floor.
From that day forward, the tree shed its falsehoods as easily as autumn leaves fall. Though its branches remained tangled, they now offered safe havens for nests. It was enough, simply, to exist.