Elitsa and the Trees
Elitsa stood by the window, watching the morning light glide across the bark of the trees — that old, cracked bark that resembled the hands of elderly people who had survived more winters than could ever be spoken of. The air smelled of dust and damp soil, and in the distance came the metallic sound of chainsaws, slicing through the silence like a harsh thought intruding upon a prayer. Even before she saw what was happening, her body understood. There are pains that arrive before words do. Pains that live in the nerves, in the chest, in the deep memory of the soul. They had begun cutting the trees. Large. Old trees. She remembered how, as a child, she believed that trees kept human secrets. That they listened. That they absorbed what a person could not confess to anyone else. Her mother had once told her that when someone cried beside a tree, the tears were never wasted. And perhaps that was why Elitsa had always felt a particular silence around old trees — not an empty silenc...