A Tree

A Poem for Withered Leaves

Spring had come, and everything was waking up. The hills of Whale Mountain were draped in fresh green, except for one tree halfway up the slope, still bare and leafless.

Kim Hakchan called in the town's forest worker, but the news wasn't good. The long, harsh winter had frostbitten the roots. No one could say if it would ever bloom again.

Hakchan sat down beside it, like keeping vigil by an old friend. He opened his ever‑present notebook. Between the pages lay a dried leaf—one he'd picked up the previous autumn. He took it out carefully, placed it next to a blank page, and decided to write.

A Poem for Withered Leaves

But after penning just the title, he stopped. He didn't know where to begin. Should he write about how the tree had once grown, or about the end it was heading toward? His thoughts tangled, so he lifted his gaze and let it drift across the sea below, as if the answer might be waiting somewhere out there.

Fog lay thick over the water, with only a single boat drifting alone in the distance. The light at its bow barely pierced the haze—just a faint glow on the gray‑white sea.

Day after day, people walking by would ask Hakchan the same question: "What are you looking at out there?" Clara was no exception.

You're always up here staring out. What's out there?

Hakchan turned at the sound of her voice, but before he could answer, Clara had already settled down beside him. She cupped her hands around her eyes, as if that might help her see more clearly.

Soft spring sunlight slipped through the clouds and spilled across the distant water. The mist began to lift, revealing bands of color glinting on the surface.

It's beautiful out there, isn't it?

Hakchan was caught off guard. The truth was, he didn't know what lay in the distance either. He only knew there was an island across the water, and beyond that, just more sea.

Well... maybe if you look far enough, you'll see more.

Clara turned to him, but her eyes drifted to the tree beside him. "If you're always staring at the horizon... aren't you worried you'll miss what's right here?"

Hakchan paused, taken aback.

Clara had noticed the tree too, even before Hakchan said anything. Its bark still held a faint trace of green, but the branches reaching toward the sky were bare—not a single bud in sight. She had gone to the forest worker for help, and that was when she found out someone else had been looking after it too.

It might not make it through the spring.

It might not. But that's not the same as 'it won't.'

Hakchan had already tried a few things. None of them made much difference. The forest worker's words echoed in his mind like a sentence already passed. What else could he do? A poem no one would ever read might be a small thing, but at least it would be something. A mark to say: this tree once grew green in the spring wind on Whale Mountain. This tree once sat with a boy who looked out at the sea for a long, long time.

Clara looked down at the notebook and spotted the single line written there. She brushed the grass off her skirt and stood up, her voice still light.

Try again. Who knows—maybe it'll surprise us.

Hakchan looked up at her. He didn't say yes. He didn't say no.

If one person's not enough, then we'll figure it out together this time.

Operation: Save the Tree

The two of them went back to the Flower Field and tracked down the forest worker again, firing off question after question. Pages filled up with ideas—some practical, some far‑fetched, all worth trying.

They pruned away the dead branches, leaving the once‑full crown looking thin and bare. Clara stood on tiptoe, carefully sealing each cut with wound dressing. Hakchan crouched low, cutting away the frostbitten, blackened roots. Then, finally, he found a patch of pale wood. Still alive.

It's not dead yet!

He looked up, excited, but the first thing he saw wasn't the tree. It was Clara's face, scrunched in concentration as she stretched to reach the last cut, her hair wind‑blown and her gloves caked with soil.

Really? She hurried around the tree, nearly tripping over a tool at her feet.

Hakchan reached out instinctively, but the moment he saw her steady herself, he pulled his hand back, as if catching himself.

Right here, he said, pointing down. "This part is still light in color."

Clara crouched beside him and studied that pale stretch of root, her eyes fixed and shining.

That's great. That means there's still hope!

From that day on, they came to the tree every day. They checked on it, cleared away meltwater pooling around the roots, and fed it nutrient solution instead of regular fertilizer.

Hakchan was always early—often before the morning dew had dried on the grass. He'd go over the branches he'd marked the day before, scanning for any sign of change, afraid that he might miss the first bud breaking through.

Clara usually showed up in the afternoon, always in a flurry—one day from the Flower Field, the next from the town, her hands already waving the moment she spotted Hakchan.

Over time, the space beneath the tree filled up with traces of them: a tin watering can, a few tools borrowed from the forest worker, and Hakchan's notebook—now noticeably thicker. Its pages were no longer just his. Clara's handwriting had begun to appear, curling in from the edges, threading between his lines.

At dusk, the setting sun would spill over them, tracing their busy figures in a soft golden light. They waited, hoping for the tree to show some sign of life. But day after day, nothing changed.

Spring was spreading across Whale Mountain, but the tree held its silence. The pruned branches stayed bare, and the pale green bark slowly lost its sheen. Still, they kept showing up. No one ever said "see you tomorrow," but they always found each other there again.

The tree never grew new leaves, but something else—something quieter—began to take root between them.

One afternoon, when Clara arrived, Hakchan didn't start with the tree. Instead, he handed her a book.

This is for you.

She blinked, then broke into a smile. "I only mentioned it once—I can't believe you remembered!"

It's nothing, he said, adjusting his glasses and looking away. "I just... wanted to say thanks—for all your help with the tree. Not that it's mine or anything. I mean... we're friends, right?"

Thank you. She raised the book to hide her flushed face, but her eyes gave her away, curving into a warm smile above it.

Spring grew warmer as they waited. They visited the Flower Field so often that the forest worker would spot them from a distance and know exactly why they'd come—though no one could give them a straight answer.

Then one day, a single green bud pushed through on a branch no one had been watching. Clara spun around on the beach, her bright yellow dress catching the spring breeze like a flower in full bloom. Hakchan sat by the tree and watched her. Something about that moment felt more beautiful than any poem he'd ever read.

But the bud didn't grow the way they'd hoped. Even as the days grew warmer, it slowly faded, paler with each passing morning.

One morning, it fell. The tree was gone.

The next afternoon, Clara didn't show up.

Hakchan sat with his book open, staring at the same page for a long time. The wind flipped it over; he turned it back in silence. Every now and then, he'd glance up at the path leading down the hill. No familiar footsteps reached him. No one waved from a distance, asking if the tree had shown any sign of life.

The sun was dipping low over the water.

A Spring We Share

Sorry, I stopped to pick something up and lost track of time.

Clara came running up the slope, out of breath, carrying a rather large bag. Her face was bright with a smile, though her eyes were still red-rimmed.

She didn't need to explain. It wasn't like they'd made any real plans.

But after a day apart, the air between them felt a little awkward. Maybe it was because the tree was gone, and with it, the excuse that had kept them coming back.

Clara broke the silence first. She looked out toward the distant sea, the same direction Hakchan used to stare. The sky was brushed in shades of pink and purple, and the water leading to the island gleamed long and bright in the fading light.

Sometimes you have to look far to see more, right?

Hakchan blinked.

Finish the poem. The one about the tree.

...What do you mean?

Whatever happens, the memories are still real. That's worth writing down. So finish it. For yourself—for me—for everyone who needs to remember.

Hakchan looked down at his notebook. The dried leaf and the bud that never grew were both still tucked between its pages.

Sadness had a way of spreading. But Clara shook it off, her tone turning serious, like she was about to do something that mattered.

But for now, let's make one more memory worth keeping.

She handed the bag to Hakchan, motioning for him to hold it. Then she crouched down and carefully lifted out two tiny saplings.

And so, in the last days of spring, they planted two small saplings together. They were barely more than twigs stuck in the earth.

They were placed a little apart from each other, their branches not quite touching. But whenever the wind blew, they swayed in the same direction.

Side by side, the two of them knelt on the grassy slope, watching, hoping—starting all over again.

When they grow into real trees, Clara said, "you should write another poem."

About what?

I don't know.

She thought for a moment, then pointed at the space between the two saplings.

But when they're big enough, there could be a bench right there. So we'd have a place to sit and take in the view.

She kept going, talking about how tall they might grow, whether their branches would meet overhead, whether there'd be enough shade to sit under in summer. Maybe only one of them would survive, but at least the time they'd spent together was already something worth having.

Hakchan looked out at the glimmering sea. This time, it felt like he could see further than ever. He hadn't figured out the poem yet, but the title had already found him.

A Spring We Share.