Thanvin, 10B, CBSE

They called me The Watcher. No one knew who gave me the name — perhaps a child, perhaps a poet, but it stuck.

I never moved. I never spoke. I never argued. Yet, I saw everything.

I watched children grow, fall, and rise again. I watched old men sip bitter tea in the early sun. I heard secrets in whispers and witnessed tears caught quickly on sleeves. I stood at the heart of the community, popularly known as the garden square, steady through storms and celebrations alike.

But there was a time, not long ago, when my silence nearly cost the village everything.

It began in a season that defied the rhythm of the others. The rains came late, and the earth cracked underfoot. Leaves fell too soon. A stillness spread, not peaceful, but heavy. People walked quicker. Faces grew tense. There was talk of leaving. Of failing.

Of forgetting.

Yet, as progress loomed and concrete whispered promises of modernization, something unseen stirred — not panic, but a swelling awareness. The earth itself seemed to inhale, as if holding its breath. The sky hung lower. The wind carried not just leaves, but questions. And deep in the centre of it all stood something that had been there all along, unmoving, but listening.

A new group had arrived in the village, promising concrete, order, and “improvement.” They were not cruel, not outwardly. They wore clean uniforms and held important papers. They spoke of “efficiency,” “development,” and “space utilization.” Their words were smooth, their smiles were rehearsed.

And so, fences were raised. Old paths were rerouted. The market was shifted. The benches, old but lovingly restored by volunteers — were removed. The mural, once painted during the Commonwealth Youth Festival by children from twelve different nations, was painted over in pale grey. The square grew quieter, colder, less like home.

Then came the day I feared most.

A man with a measuring tape circled me thrice. He made notes. A woman with a clipboard frowned at my feet. They marked the soil with orange paint. I knew what it meant. I had seen it done to others.

A boy noticed. His name was Musa, and he had sat by me every afternoon since his family moved here from another part of the Commonwealth — a coast where the sand whispered stories and the air smelled of cardamom and sea salt. He watched the orange marks in silence, then returned with chalk. On the stone beside me, he wrote one word in his careful handwriting:
“Why?”

That small word echoed more than any speech could.

It started something.

Others followed. An old woman brought a photo, black and white, edges curled. It showed her younger self, standing nearby with her sister. “We buried a time capsule here,” she said. “Right underneath. Letters to the children of the future.”

Someone else remembered a wedding proposal. Another vigil was held after the earthquake.Another recalled the first-ever village Eid celebration shared between families of every faith, celebrated right here. One man stood silently, tears in his eyes, and simply said, “This is where I found peace.”

People began speaking — quietly at first, then loudly — gathering around me not just in protest, but in memory. In gratitude. In Unity.

But the developers didn’t see value in memory.
The permits were already signed.
The date was set.
I would be gone before the next full moon.
I watched, helpless.
And then... the storm came.

It began as a distant growl. The sky cracked open like a drum, releasing weeks of hoarded rain. Winds snapped wires. Water surged through alleys. For the first time in many years, the square became a place of refuge.

The power failed.
Streets flooded.
Phones died.

But the people came, drawn together in need, in instinct. They gathered under my canopy, huddled against the storm. I sheltered them, just as I had through heat and hardship, festival and famine. Families shared food. Elders offered wisdom. Children whispered lullabies they barely remembered learning. Stories emerged between lightning strikes. Neighbors who had never spoken embraced.

And that night, something changed.

Not in me — I remained as I always had — but in them.

When the sun rose, cutting through the mist like a blade, the square was still. But the chalk was back. This time, not one word, dozens.

“Hope lives here.”
“This place holds us.”
“We remember.”
“Rooted together.”
“Don’t cut our past.”

A letter was sent to the council, signed by hundreds. Photos were printed. A video was made. Children created paper leaves and tied them to my branches with string. Teenagers turned old photographs into posters. A retired teacher translated stories into French, Urdu, Swahili, and Hindi, hanging them for everyone to read.

The message was simple: we are not asking for preservation — we are demanding it.

The developers returned with their machines. But this time, they were met not with silence, but song. Drums. Voices. A human chain around the square. News reporters came. Social media exploded. The news media picked it up.

The permits were paused. The plans have been revised.
The square was saved.
And me?
Well, now they know my name.

You see, all this time, through war and reunion, migration and change, I watched, I listened, and I remembered.

Because I am not a person.
I am the tree at the center of the square.
Planted generations ago by a child with a tiny seed and a dream of unity.
I have no tongue, but I speak in rustling leaves.
No eyes, but I see in rings of time.
No hands, but I have held your secrets and your celebrations.
I am the story of the community.
And I am still growing.

Today, children climb my low branches. They hang bird feeders and wind chimes and hand-painted signs that say things like “Stay Rooted” and “This Tree Listens.” Visitors from across the world leave small offerings beneath me — shells from the Pacific, spices from the Caribbean, silks from South Asia. I am no longer just a local landmark. I have become a shared symbol.

I was even given an official title: The Tree of Memory.

But I prefer The Silent Witness.

Because even as the world moves faster, even as languages shift and buildings rise, there is something powerful about stillness. About listening. About standing firm when others forget.

Perhaps that’s why I was planted here in the first place — not just to provide shade or beauty, but to anchor people when the winds of change blow too strong. I have watched communities transform, watched traditions blend and evolve. You might hear something.

A breath. A whisper. A memory.

Or perhaps... a leaf falling gently to remind you that the past lives here. That unity is not in sameness, but in shared care.

That is what we plant today — in hearts, in communities, in the soil — becomes the canopy under which others will someday find shelter.

And I, the tree at the center of your world, will keep watching.

And I will remember.