The Oak Tree and the Promise of the Stars

Elijah was just six years old — a boy amid many, and yet he seemed completely alone in his own world. The house he lived in was full of people, but no one truly saw him.
No protective hand, no familiar gaze, no voice whispering: "You belong with us."

He often asked himself:

"Why am I here? Why don’t I understand how family is supposed to work?"

I myself — Elijah — didn’t know what it felt like to live in a family filled with love. I often felt like I just existed — without purpose, without meaning.
Yet within this loneliness, a door opened: the world of dreams, carrying me gently, even as the feeling of not belonging to this earth remained.

It was on one of those heavy, sultry summer evenings.
The air hung thick as I stood outside, my gaze fixed on the old oak tree standing proudly atop the small hill. Alone, proud, and unshakable, it stretched its mighty branches far toward the sky, ready to endure storms and centuries alike.
Its gnarled silhouette blazed against a sky painted in deep crimson and molten gold by the setting sun.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, the sky opened above me.
Stars began to whisper. Galaxies drew their luminous veils across the crown of the tree.
An overwhelming sense of vastness seized my soul.

Out there, I could feel it deep in my heart: something was waiting.
Something I could not yet name — but it was calling.

I placed my small hand on the rough bark of the tree, as if to say thank you.
At least he was there — steadfast, silent, and true.

Later, I slipped into my bed, letting my eyes fall shut, gliding gently into another world —
a world no less real than this one.
A dimension beyond time, beyond limits, where everything forgotten could be remembered.

Then, a voice — soft, clear, full of timeless love — reached me:

"Wake up, my dear. The tree is calling you. It wants to speak with you."

It was Athos — my guide, my protector, my invisible companion.

"Athos!" I cried out within my mind.
"You’re back! I was afraid you had left me."

"I will never leave you, Elijah," Athos whispered, a warmth spreading through my chest.
"I am always with you. In every breath. In every moment."

All at once, I was awake — or was I still dreaming?
I floated silently through the night, gliding just above the ground, as weightless as an owl.
No resistance. No barriers.
Only the soft, caressing whisper of the wind against my skin.

The oak tree rose ahead of me — but it was no longer just a tree.
That night, it glowed.

Thousands of tiny lights — diamonds of starlight — adorned its branches and leaves.
The stars danced around it, and the golden light of distant planets bathed the world in a shimmer of unearthly beauty.

I let myself fall into the soft, warm grass, leaned against the ancient trunk, and closed my eyes for a heartbeat.

And I asked:

"I am here, my friend. What do you want to tell me?"

The voice came not from the tree alone, but through the tree, through Athos, through the very fabric of the universe:

"Elijah, it is time you understand why this world is already yours — even if you still feel like a stranger within it."

His words were heavy with truth, yet gentle as a lullaby.

"You are growing up in a house full of people, but they live within the confines of their own isolated worlds. Many have forgotten how to truly see, how to truly feel.
They cannot recognize your heart, Elijah, because they have lost the way to their own."

"But then," I whispered into the vastness of the night, "why do I feel so abandoned? So unwanted?"

Athos remained silent for a long moment — the kind of silence that holds a thousand answers.

Then he said:

"It is the great journey of souls in this world to find themselves again.
One day, you will realize: your pain is not your enemy.
It is part of your awakening."

"Everything that seems dark now will one day become light.
Trust your world, Elijah.
Trust your inner universe.
It is more real and more enduring than anything you could ever touch with your hands."

At that moment, a fox emerged from the shadows — graceful, silent, and wise.
His fur shimmered like liquid silver beneath the starlight.
Without a sound, he sat beside me — no expectations, no demands.
Simply there.

His presence alone was enough to fill my heart with a peace I had almost forgotten was possible.

I leaned deeper into the tree, feeling the great roots stretch beneath me — into the earth, and beyond, perhaps even to other unseen worlds.

Carried by the earth, the tree, the stars, and the silent fox, I surrendered to a sleep that felt more like an awakening.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I knew:

I am not alone.
I had never been.

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