The following days were boring as usual—very quiet, with no cases and no Rose. My mind was empty, so I tried to remember the Short Story I had once read. On second thought, the story was quite interesting. It broadened my perspective. I looked at my bookshelf with a different view. The books were no longer just decorations; they were windows to a deeper understanding. I reached for another book, a story titled The Acacia Tree on the Hilltop, and once again slipped into another unfamiliar narrative.
His name was Seroja, a traveler who had spent half his life searching for the legendary acacia tree on the hilltop. He had crossed scorching deserts, sailed through stormy seas, and climbed snow-capped mountains. To him, the tree was everything. It was said that whoever sat beneath the tree would find the answers to all of life's questions. He would understand why he existed, what his purpose was, and how he should live the rest of his days.
Seroja wasn't looking for answers for others. He was only looking for answers for himself. He felt empty, as if a part of him was missing. He had everything—wealth, fame, power—yet he never felt whole. He was sure that the acacia tree on the hilltop was the only thing that could fill that void.
After years of searching, Seroja finally found the hill. The hill was tall, soaring to the sky, and on its peak, stood a magnificent acacia tree. The tree looked majestic, with roots that pierced the earth and branches that reached for the sky. Seroja's heart pounded. He had finally arrived.
He climbed the hill, his steps heavy, but his heart full of hope. When he reached the top, he immediately went to the tree. He sat beneath it, leaning against its sturdy trunk, closing his eyes, waiting for the answers.
However, there were no answers. No voice, no whispers, no enlightenment. Just silence. Seroja opened his eyes, confused. He had sacrificed everything to get here. But why was there nothing?
He looked around. The view from the hilltop was breathtaking. On one side, he could see the blue ocean, on the other, he could see the snow-covered mountains, and below, he could see the bustling villages, with people living their lives simply.
Seroja felt empty. He had spent his life searching for an answer that didn't exist. He felt foolish, having wasted such precious time.
Suddenly, he saw something next to him. A small stone with an inscription carved on its surface. He picked up the stone, wiped the dust from its surface, and read the inscription.
The inscription was only one sentence: "This tree only gives you a place to see, not a place to find."
Seroja was silent. He stared at the stone, then at the acacia tree, then at the view below. He finally understood. The tree did not give answers, because answers could not be given. The answers had to be found by himself, through the process, through the journey.
He had been too focused on the final goal, on the tree, so he had missed the most important lesson: the lesson of the journey itself. He had crossed deserts, seas, and mountains, and in each journey, he had learned something. He had learned about perseverance, about courage, about patience. That was the answer he was looking for. The answer was not on the hilltop, but within himself.
I closed the book, feeling another piece of understanding fit into place within me. The story wasn't just about a traveler. It was about every human being living in this world.
I remembered myself. All this time, I had always looked for answers outside of myself. I looked for truth in physical evidence, in patterns, in deductions. I was too focused on the end, on solving the case, on catching the criminal. But I missed the process.
I missed the interactions that happened between people, the motivations that underlay their every action. I missed the fear and hope that drove everyone to do something. I missed the fact that human beings are fundamentally complex, and the truths they seek are just as complex.
"This tree only gives you a place to see, not a place to find," the sentence echoed in my mind. It was the most fundamental sentence I had ever read. Truth cannot be given; it must be found. And that discovery doesn't happen in a special place, but within ourselves.
I, Arez Redzel, a smart and logical detective, had only been seeing all this time. I saw facts, saw evidence, saw tracks. But I didn't find. I didn't dig for the deeper truth.
I smiled faintly. Now, I understand. Being a true detective isn't just about solving cases. It's also about understanding life, about understanding people, about understanding myself.
I felt whole. The part of me that was missing had now been filled. I had found the answer to my life's question. And that answer was not in a book, not in a case, but within myself.