The valley lay in a hush too heavy to be peace. The air hung still, thick with the scent of damp earth and old bark. The mountains loomed like silent judges, their peaks swallowed by a sky the color of ash. No bird called, no wind stirred the leaves — only the quiet breathing of the ancient trees broke the silence. The ground seemed to hold its breath, as if unsure whether to welcome or mourn what was about to arrive. Even the faint glow of the horizon hesitated, unwilling to spill light into a place so long abandoned by warmth. It was not the calm before a storm, but the weight of a sadness that had always been there.
Her birth came without celebration.
The valley's silence deepened, as though the land itself had stepped back to watch. A thin cry broke the stillness — fragile, yet echoing against the mountain walls like a question no one wished to answer. There was no sun to greet her, only the shadowed canopy of trees leaning inward, their leaves trembling with a quiet, cautious love. The mountains stood unmoved, the sky a muted slab of grey, and the earth cold beneath her. No warmth touched her skin except for the soft rustle of the good trees, whose branches bent low, cradling her in a nest of shade. In that moment, she was both claimed and abandoned — born into a world where only the trees seemed to want her, their roots curling close as if to keep her from slipping away into the darkness that had made her.
She grew.
And as she grew, the vicious trees grew too — taller, sharper, their thorns twisting until they wrapped around her legs like cruel chains. The good trees still smiled at her, praising her for her courage, soothing her wounds with their gentle leaves. But the smile she once carried was fading.
She could not understand.
Why could she not be happy with the love she had?
A question began to gnaw at her mind: What is the point of living?
She asked the good trees, and they told her, "To be loved, and to show love."
It was not enough.
She asked the vicious trees, and they said, "To live… because we fear death."
Why should they fear death? She could not understand that either.
So she wandered — up the hill, down the hill — asking the land, the sky, the sun, the moon: Why bear so much pain? Why endure so much suffering?
Some voices whispered, "Who knows what awaits after death?"
Others said, "Life is given once — why waste it searching for its reason?"
But no one could tell her why she was so eager to find the answer.
Life began to torment her more. The wind screamed like a storm, tearing at her small frame. She cried, and cried again:
"Why can't I just die? This is too dark to be happy! Why can't I be happy like everyone else? Why must I keep coming back to this question? Why won't God let me die? Not everybody wants to live. Some have no fear of death… so why do you mock me for searching?"
She never noticed how the good trees had stood beside her all along. Perhaps she didn't want to. Perhaps she was drawn to the sting of the thorns, to the bitterness that matched her own heart.
And perhaps… she had never wanted to live from the very beginning.
The years passed, and still she searched.
Life gave her moments of joy, but always took them away. She decided that when she said she had enough, then it was enough. She begged for an end.
One day, thirst and hunger claimed her. Her steps slowed, the good trees' light dimmed, and darkness poured in. She called for them, asking why they no longer showed her the light — but now even the good trees made her cry. She no longer needed the bad ones for pain.
"Love me… love me," she whispered, clinging to the trunks she had once wanted to leave. She did love them — deeply — but she hated the responsibility of protecting them. She always wished to die before they did, to escape that sacrifice.
Was she selfish?
She thought of how they would feel if she died. She cared… but perhaps she cared less than she feared her own suffering.
She ran from them. She asked again: What is the point of living?
No one could answer.
Who knows if this world is real? Who knows if we are only acting on some unseen script? Who cares? And yet, she cared. She cared so much she destroyed herself in the search.
She forgot her dreams. All she wanted was to be rid of sadness. Whenever pain struck, she begged for death. The more she starved, the more she hurt.
The good trees never returned. She swore that if they did, she would stop asking… but they never came.
At last, she died — still asking the question.
The bad trees laughed.
The good trees wept.
Her suffering ended, but she gave it to those she loved most.
And she realized, too late, that the light she had sought in others was something she could have been herself. She had never needed light from outside — she had only needed to stop demanding it.
And yet, in the final breath before regret swallowed her, she begged not for death, but to live again.
The question remained, even after the valley was silent:
What is the point of living
If no one finds it… should we all die?
Perhaps not.
Perhaps, if there is no point to living,
then the point of living
is to search for the point itself.
Such a shame she died not realising it