Centuries passed.
The Tree was no longer measured in rings. It was measured in eras.
Its trunk was wide as a hill. Its branches shaded the valley. Its roots held the continent together. It was not just a tree. It was the Axis. The Heart. The Memory.
The Cliff was no longer white chalk. It was green moss. Soft. Deep. The stones were buried. The mound was a hill. The shelter was dust.
But the Tree remained.
People came. Not to walk. Not to heal. To remember.
They came from the Ice Cities. Glass domes under the snow.
They came from the Sea Villages. Floating platforms on the waves.
They came from the Forest Towns. Houses woven into the branches.
They came from the Stone Ruins. Gardens in the shells of skyscrapers.
They gathered around the Tree. Once a generation. Once a century. Onc
