
"Why does it always have to be trees?"
Jenna shook her head, staring up at the thick canopy of the Treaty Oak, its ancient branches sprawling like the outstretched hands of an old sage. The light flickered through the leaves, casting patterns of gold and shadow on the grass. Her voice barely carried above the murmur of the crowd gathering below.
Across from her, Lucas glanced up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You expected a symbol of peace to be a skyscraper?"
Jenna huffed and crossed her arms. "I expected something... more modern. But a tree? I mean, come on."
Lucas leaned back against the stone bench, his eyes tracing the curves of the massive trunk that had withstood centuries of change, neglect, and even poison. The Treaty Oak, as if hearing their conversation, seemed to creak in response, a whispering sigh that made the hair on Jenna's arms stand on end.
“Sometimes old things hold the deepest wisdom,” Lucas said quietly, his tone far more serious than Jenna was used to. He stood up, brushing off the dust from his jeans. “Besides, this isn’t just any tree.”
She knew he was right, but the sheer grandiosity of the idea still felt bizarre. ReLeaf’s latest project—connecting ancient natural monuments with cutting-edge technology to promote peace and conservation—was the kind of thing that made her want to roll her eyes. But here they were. The Treaty Oak, the beating heart of Austin, had somehow transformed into the world’s most unlikely diplomat.
“How exactly did they say the tree ‘speaks’?” Jenna asked, suspicion lingering in her voice. “I mean, we’re talking about a global network, right? Who even decided the Oak should be the one to lead these ‘conversations’?”
Lucas smiled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s the beauty of it. Nobody decided. It just... happened.”
Jenna frowned, folding her arms tighter. "Trees don’t just ‘happen’ to become spokespeople.”
"They do when you have an entire community behind them,” Lucas countered. He paused, gazing at the oak like it held secrets Jenna couldn't quite grasp. "The Treaty Oak survived a lot. Centuries of storms, pollution, that guy who tried to poison it back in the '80s... And then, out of nowhere, this grassroots movement started growing around it—people donating, coming together to protect it. That's when ReLeaf saw an opportunity."
Jenna remembered reading about the poisoning incident years ago. The city had been devastated, but in typical Austin fashion, the community had rallied, pouring resources into saving the tree. When it had finally pulled through, it became more than just a symbol of survival; it was a testament to resilience.
And now, apparently, to global diplomacy.
"Okay, fine," she said. "But I still don't get how the tree ‘speaks’. You can’t tell me they’ve wired it with microphones or something.”
Lucas chuckled. “Not exactly. Think of it more like a network of people—citizen scientists, environmentalists, diplomats, activists—gathering around the tree’s cause. Through ReLeaf, they’ve linked the Oak to projects all over the world. It’s like the Oak’s roots aren’t just in the ground anymore—they’re in conversations, conflicts, resolutions.”
Jenna raised an eyebrow. “So it’s a metaphor.”
“And more,” Lucas said, taking a slow step toward the trunk. “Remember, the Treaty Oak’s got a long history with peace. It was here long before Austin. Legend says tribes used to meet beneath it to resolve disputes.”
“And now it’s leading peace talks?” Jenna’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Kind of. Through its ‘voice’—the Voice of the Oak Council—they represent it at these environmental negotiations, especially where the destruction of nature is tied to conflict. It’s not just about conservation anymore—it’s about healing.”
The wind rustled through the leaves as Lucas’s words settled. Jenna glanced up, almost expecting the tree to nod in agreement. The Oak, with its gnarled limbs and thick bark, suddenly felt more alive than before. It had witnessed centuries of change, survived a near-death experience, and now it was at the center of something even bigger than itself.
For a brief moment, Jenna felt small in comparison to its vast, ancient presence. Yet, at the same time, a strange sense of awe crept over her. Maybe Lucas was right. Maybe it wasn’t about whether or not a tree could speak, but about the fact that people—communities—were willing to listen.
“And that’s why,” Lucas said softly, breaking the silence, “it always has to be trees.”
Jenna gave a short, reluctant laugh, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there was something to it. “Fine. You win,” she muttered. “But don’t expect me to start hugging it anytime soon.”
Lucas grinned. “Who knows, Jenna. Give it time.”