Standing alone.

A tree stands alone in the fog, tall and unwavering. The mist wraps around it like a pale blanket, hiding the world but revealing its shape in soft outlines. There’s no sound, just the quiet breath of the forest. The tree doesn’t move, doesn’t bend—it simply is, a solitary figure holding its place while everything else drifts and fades.

Yet the longer you look, the more it seems to gather the silence around itself, becoming not just a tree but a witness. The fog thickens and thins in slow, patient waves, brushing gently against its bark as though trying to learn its contours. Shadows rise and fall in the shifting light, and the world feels paused—caught between one heartbeat and the next. It is alone, but not lonely. Rooted deep, it carries decades, maybe centuries, within its core: storms weathered, winters endured, sunlight soaked into its rings. All of that weight and memory stands silently now in the grey morning, wrapped in a shroud of mist.

And as the fog slowly unravels, the tree remains—steady, patient, unhurried—waiting for the world to return.