The tree next door never rests . Its branches shuffle like fidgeting fingers , and its offerings rearrange themselves when no one’s looking . Last week, it wore pink paper lanterns. Yesterday, the lanterns were gone, replaced by dreamcatchers that shiver like chattering teeth. Today, a crown of fairy lights twitches in the daylight.

The tree next door whispers. It hoards secrets deep in the cracks of its bark. At night, the wood groans and splinters, joints flexing like something trapped inside. Even the wind refuses to listen, carrying its cries away. Still, the tree stirs, low and unrelenting, begging to be heard.

And if it begs, shouldn’t someone listen? If not the wind, then who? The tree holds its mysteries close—yet what might happen if pressed ? Would the bark resist, or curl back like skin torn from flesh ? What would be uncovered if it gave way? Ask it, then. Who dresses you, tree? Why do they change your face each dawn? What do you murmur when darkness presses close? And—if one truly listens—what would you confess?

Tonight, the fairy lights thrash against the dark. They convulse and stutter, hurling frantic shadows across the soil that make the ground seem to heave, sigh, and shift beneath the tree

In the morning, the neighbors will smile politely in passing. But the tree hints otherwise . The tree hisses still.