🌲 The Little Bewildered Fir 🌲
A scribble-fairy tale.

Deep in an old forest, where sunbeams danced like golden butterflies between branches, there grew a single, small fir tree. It stood between tall beeches and graceful birches whose branches were straight as quills and whose trunks shimmered silver in the morning dew.

But the little fir… oh, it looked different.
Its branches twisted this way and that, as if they had once tried to reach for the sky, then changed their minds halfway. Some curled like question marks. Others stretched like puzzled fingers. Even the trunk leaned ever so slightly, as if the whole tree was wondering what it meant to be a tree at all.

The other trees often rustled their leaves and whispered to one another.

“Look how crooked it is,” teased the young birches.
“So confused!” giggled the beeches, shaking their tidy branches.

Even the squirrels, who were usually kind-hearted little creatures, chattered with mirth when they scampered past. Only the moss, soft and quiet, never judged—it simply grew in its own peaceful, green way.

The little fir tried its best to stand tall, but no matter how hard it tried to look like the others, its branches kept bending into their own shapes, full of gentle confusion.

Yet the fir tree kept its needles year-round, and deep inside, its heart glowed with a warmth it didn’t quite understand.

One morning the sky lowered itself like a heavy blanket, and snow began to fall—soft at first, then in great swirling feathers. The wind sighed through the forest, and the sun disappeared behind a curtain of white.

Soon winter tightened its icy grip.
The proud beeches and birches lost their leaves, each one spiraling to the ground like golden tears. Their branches stood bare and trembling in the cold.

The animals of the forest shivered. The squirrels curled their tails around themselves, but still their noses froze. The little birds hopped frantically from twig to twig, seeking shelter that no longer existed. Even the wise old hare felt the winter’s teeth nibbling at his fur.

The forest grew quiet—too quiet.
The kind of quiet that even the snow listened to.

Then, through the cold stillness, came a warm voice.
Come to me, dear friends : said the little fir tree softly.
All the animals turned their heads.

There stood the small, bewildered fir, its green needles still soft and full, its odd branches shaped like gentle arms ready to embrace. Beneath it, the fallen leaves of the other trees had drifted into a thick, warm nest—golden, brown, and soft as feather beds.

“I still have my green warmth to share,” said the fir. “And beneath me lie the leaves of your own forest friends. Together, they can shelter you.”

The animals hurried over.
The birds nestled among the fir’s quirky branches—each twist and bend forming a perfect cradle.
The squirrels tucked themselves into the leaf bed, sighing with relief.
The hare rested beneath the lowest bough, where the wind could not touch him.

The other trees looked on.
Their branches, bare and cold, drooped with a mixture of shame and understanding.

“We teased you,” whispered the birches, “but you are the one who protects everyone.”
“We did not see your beauty,” murmured the beeches, “but now we feel it.”

The little fir said nothing. It simply stood, bewildered branches glowing with quiet pride.

When spring returned, the trees grew their fresh leaves again, shimmering and bright. But they never rustled unkindly toward the little fir. Instead, they bowed their branches whenever the wind blew, as if to say:

“We learned from you.
Every tree has something to give.
Even those who grow a little differently.”

And the little fir?
Its branches still wandered in their curious, whimsical ways. But now they did so freely—without apology, and with a new sparkle of belonging.

Some said the tree grew just a little taller that year.
Others swore its needles shimmered like tiny emeralds at sunset.
But those who listened closely claimed they heard a soft humming, like a lullaby made of wind and gratitude.

And if you wander through that forest today, you might still find a small fir tree with branches that twist like gentle puzzles—
a tree that once stood confused,
but became the warm heart of winter.

And it is said that every creature who rests beneath its boughs grows just a little kinder.

TsL. 25
🌲🍂 ❣️😌
#Tree-mas25 #Diadvent #scribbles