The tree must have been struck years ago. Its trunk split clean down the middle, blackened on the inside, still standing but empty.
The man runs his hand along the charred wood. It’s rough, fragile in places. He thinks about how grief split his own life – one day intact, the next … hollow.
Ben trots ahead, curious. He sticks his head inside the trunk and sniffs around. No nests, no creatures, no treasure. Just space and silence.
The man lingers a moment longer. There’s something about a tree that survives lightning but loses its core. Still rooted. Still here. But changed forever.
He doesn’t have the words to explain it, not even to himself.
He calls Ben, and they keep walking.
Some wounds can’t be hidden. Some hollows can’t be filled. But still – you stand.
“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.” (2 Cor 4:8–9)
Even hollowed, life remains. Even split, you can still root deep.
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