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The Oppressive Silence of the City
Claire had stopped breathing for weeks. Not literally, of course, but the city air seemed to have thickened until it became unbreathable. Her small apartment, once a refuge, had transformed into a cage. The walls crept closer each day, and the constant noise—honking horns, conversations, neighbors’ music—formed a discordant symphony that prevented her from thinking clearly. That morning, staring at her computer screen over a cup of coffee, she couldn’t see what was in front of her, unable to focus on her work. Emails piled up, her phone vibrated endlessly, and that suffocating sensation never left her.
“Breathe,” she told herself. But how? Oxygen seemed scarce everywhere.
Without really thinking, she had slipped on her shoes, grabbed her raincoat—the sky looked threatening—and slammed the door behind her. The small woods on the outskirts of the city called to her. A place she had never taken time to explore, despite living in the neighborhood for three years. Always too busy, always in motion. Today, however, it had become a visceral necessity.
After twenty minutes of brisk walking, the silhouette of the first trees appeared. Nothing impressive: a modest suburban wood, probably neglected by most residents. Claire slowed down as she crossed the tree line. The sound of traffic gradually faded, replaced by the rustling of leaves stirred by the breeze.
The Invisible Armor
Claire moved forward slowly, shoulders still tense, unable to immediately shed the shell she wore in the city. Her steps crunched on fallen leaves and twigs. She walked mechanically, her mind still cluttered with mental lists, deadlines, and problems to solve. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A reflex: her hand automatically reached for it.
Then she stopped abruptly. No. Not now.
She turned off the device with an almost violent gesture before tucking it deep in her bag. Her breathing was still shallow, as if her body had forgotten how to inhale deeply. She closed her eyes for a moment and forced herself to take a deep breath. The humid air filled her lungs, laden with scents of earth, moss, and bark.
For nearly half an hour, Claire wandered aimlessly, simply following the paths that presented themselves. Her steps gradually became less stiff, her shoulders lowered slightly. She became aware of her body, of how she moved, as if relearning to inhabit her own skin. Sometimes, she stopped to touch the rough bark of an oak or observe a spider web glistening with raindrops.
As she ventured deeper into the woods, the silence paradoxically became more sonorous. Subtle rustlings, the distant chirping of a bird, the whisper of the wind—a subtle symphony she hadn’t heard in a long time.
The Unexpected Encounter
That’s when she saw it. Nothing spectacular: a medium-sized beech tree in the middle of a small clearing. It was neither particularly tall nor remarkably old. Just an ordinary tree. Yet something in its posture, in the way its branches extended toward the sky, irresistibly drew Claire to it.
She approached slowly, as if afraid of startling it. The silver-gray trunk bore a few scars, traces of old storms perhaps, but it stood straight and proud. Claire placed her hand on the smooth bark. Under her fingers, she thought she perceived an imperceptible vibration, as if the tree were breathing. A ridiculous idea, obviously. Yet she couldn’t help closing her eyes and pressing her cheek against the trunk.
“This is absurd,” she whispered with a nervous little laugh. But she remained still, listening to the silence.
The impulse suddenly came to capture this moment. She stepped back a few paces, took out her phone and framed the tree to take a photo. It was at that precise moment that she spotted it: a fawn-colored deer that had just appeared on the other side of the beech.
The animal didn’t flee. It slowly turned its head toward Claire, its gaze meeting hers. Its large black eyes seemed to study her with quiet curiosity. Claire held her breath, frozen, her phone still raised but forgotten.
Time stood still.
The Language of Trees
Just a few seconds, but they stretched like an eternity. The deer eventually lowered its head delicately, grazing on some shoots at the foot of the tree, perfectly at ease despite the human presence. Claire dared not move. A strange feeling overcame her, as if she had just been admitted into a world to which she didn’t belong, invited to share a secret.
Phone still in hand, she realized she hadn’t taken any photos. And suddenly, that seemed absurd, almost disrespectful. This moment wasn’t meant to be captured, but experienced. She put away her device and sat down gently on a stump a few meters from the tree and the deer.
For the first time in months, perhaps years, Claire was fully present. No more swirling thoughts, no more anxiety. Just this suspended moment, this silent communion between her, the animal, and the tree. The deer continued its meal, occasionally glancing up at her. The beech swayed slightly in the breeze, its leaves rustling like whispers.
Claire truly observed the tree this time. Its roots breaking through the surface, its branches drawing arabesques in the sky, the way light filtered through its foliage, creating moving patterns on the ground. This ordinary tree was anything but ordinary. It was a world unto itself, a universe vibrating with life, stories, and invisible connections.
Without realizing it, tears streamed down her cheeks.
Breath Rediscovered
Claire returned often to the small woods in the weeks that followed. She never saw the deer again, but that didn’t matter. The beech tree was always there, and gradually, she came to know other trees, other corners of this modest forest that most city dwellers ignored.
She had formed the habit of bringing a notebook and pencils. Not for drawing—she had no talent for that—but to note her impressions, the subtle changes in light, smells, sounds. Sometimes, she wrote clumsy poems she would never dare show anyone. The beech had become her silent confidant.
Her apartment had changed too. Branches collected during her walks now stood in a vase. On the wall above her desk, she had hung dried leaves and photos—for she had eventually decided to take pictures, not to capture moments, but to remind herself to look more carefully.
One evening, as she was returning from work, a colleague asked what had changed about her.
“You look… different,” he said, hesitating.
Claire simply smiled. How could she explain that now, between meetings, she closed her eyes and found the rustling of leaves again? How could she tell him she had learned to breathe again?
The treasure she had discovered in these woods wasn’t the deer, or even the tree. It was the rediscovered capacity to marvel at the ordinary.
Magic had never ceased to exist; it was her gaze that had forgotten to see it.