The Flood
Once, we stood tall and proud, a silent congregation of ancient sentinels in the valley's heart. Our roots intertwined, forming a subterranean tapestry that echoed with the whispers of centuries gone by. The sun would play hide-and-seek through our branches, and the wind would share its secrets, rustling our leaves in a language only we understood.
Then came the humans, with their plans and blueprints, their machines that roared like thunder. They spoke of progress and growth, but we did not know the meaning of these words. We only knew the earth beneath us and the sky above, the dance of seasons that painted our world in hues of green, gold, and crimson.
The first inkling of change was a distant murmur, a vibration in the soil that foretold an impending doom. We trembled as the machines drew near, carving scars into the land. We whispered among ourselves, trying to decipher the language of progress, but it eluded us like a fleeting breeze.
The waters advanced, a relentless tide that swallowed the valley in its icy embrace, and one by one, our brethren fell—their limbs severed by the rushing waters, their leaves silenced. The humans spoke of a lake, but to us, it was a monstrous abyss that devoured our roots, drowning our memories in its murky depths.
Despair settled among us like a heavy fog. We reached out to the fleeing birds, begging them to carry our pleas to the heavens. But they, too, abandoned us, seeking refuge in distant havens untouched by the hands of men.
The waters rose, and panic took hold. We clung to each other in a futile attempt to defy the inevitable. The current swept away our friends and kin, their silent screams echoing through the valley. We stood as witnesses to a tragedy scripted by forces beyond our comprehension.
As the last rays of sunlight vanished behind the encroaching waves, we mourned the loss of a world that existed only in memories. The lake stretched before us like a reflection of our sorrow, its surface a cold, unyielding mirror that revealed not the valley's beauty but the scars of its demise.
And so, we remained—silent witnesses to the mystery of our own undoing, condemned to stand in the shadows of progress, haunted by the whispers of a world that once was and would never be again.
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