Beneath a sky heavy with silence, a lone tree stands, its branches reaching like ink drawn against the pale expanse. Bare, unadorned, yet resolute—its limbs hold the memory of seasons past, of rains that once nourished it, of winds that whispered through leaves now long gone. It does not mourn its emptiness; it wears it like a badge of endurance.

Beyond it, the mountain breathes in the mist, an eternal guardian watching over the slow erosion of time. Man’s creations linger in the foreground—rusted beams, forgotten walls, a structure that once had purpose but now only serves as a marker of what was. The creeping vines, the cracked concrete, the quiet reclamation by nature—all speak of a balance shifting, a cycle closing.

This is not an image of decay, but of transformation. The absence of color strips away distractions, leaving only essence. The tree does not lament what it has lost, nor does the mountain grieve for the structures crumbling at its feet. Everything changes, everything fades, and yet—everything endures in a different form.

Perhaps, in its stillness, the tree remembers. Perhaps, in our stillness, we can listen.