He knew he needed to get up, but he was so very tired. He knew that if he didn't move soon, he wouldn't be able to. Old age had caught up with him with a vengenance. But he was so tired, and just a few more minutes here, in this place, would be alright.
It was such a beautiful place. The willow had grown to a staggering height over the years, it's full arms draped down, providing a virtual green curtain to the world. Many a day he had sat in silence and wept for his loss. This was the only spot where no one else was ever around. He was able to escape here without any interruption. The moss always seemed to be grow thick and green, soft enough to provide a comfortable seat. Over the years, he had slowly worn an indention in the ground, providing a slight chair indention. Just a few feet away trickled a babbling brook. He would oftentimes launch a leaf ship down the stream just watching the currents sail it away.
It was an idealistic spot. But one created through tragedy. He planted it the day she had died. They had been a young couple, full of hope and dreams. One fateful night, one tragic accident with a drunk driver, and suddenly he was all alone in the world. He planted the tree on the day he left.
People talked about him for years, wondering what had happened to him, where he had gone. He lost his mind for a time, and wandered the world. For forty years he wandered the earth as a mercenary, a soldier, spy, trader, business tycoon. Forty years of emptiness and regret. Forty years of a lonely existence. While he had met many different women over the years, none had ever been able to take her place. His heart loved only one person. Now and forever.
Finally, tired and weary, with no more mystery left in the world, no wars worth fighting, he came home. People no longer recognized him, no one remembered him; he was able to find the obscurity he sought. Forty years gone was a long time for a tree to grow. It took him a little while to find his old property, the land was still his, but growth had sprung up around it. Nothing looked the way it did when he left.
He spent months cleaning up the property by hand. Cutting down trees, clearing out underbrush, digging a new trench for the brook (now a stagnant pool of debris), it took him a long time, but he was proud of his work when he was done.
But now he was so tired. He wanted to rest just a minute more by the tree. He felt so close to her here. In this spot, so many years ago, he had asked her to be his bride. He could still her voice calling his name. It was a whisper on the breeze. The leaves would move with the sound of his name. She was calling him home.
The neighborhood never really knew who cleared the property. They assumed it was a park. Residents soon came freely to the area, enjoying the tranquility, the peace, and they always felt an overwhelming urge to keep the place pristine, cleaner than they found it.
But the real draw for everyone was the strange willow tree. It was magnificent, obviously old in age with spreading roots and voluminous leaves. But the reason everyone wanted to see the tree was the strange wooden statue that rested beside it. It seemed just a stump of an old tree at first. But if you looked closely, some believed they could make out a face. And that face was smiling from one ear to the other.
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