The soil is moist, enriched with flowering plants, and plagued with weeds, the dew lingering on the leaves of scattered plants, the earthy smell lasting after the last rain. The chirping Ringneck hatchlings fly away as a boy runs through, brushing away the shrubbery from his eyes as he makes his way to an open plot of land. The boy is young, with brown eyes and black hair. He sits on his haunches, reaching his arms out to soften the soil as I watchfully observed these events from a safe distance away. He then gets up, brushing off the dirt from his legs, walking right towards me. He picks me up carefully, making sure not to break my roots or damage my leaves. He places me in a hole he has dug, patting the soil around me. He then comes back with water, pouring it into the damp earth. He leaves.

As the adult Ringneck resting on my left branch flies away, I realize that I have become the tallest tree in my vicinity, towering above the prickly bushes and mango trees, focusing on a figure approaching the enclosure. The boy has returned, only that he isn’t a boy anymore. He has grown in comparison to the height I remember him to be. He is a lot slower, not sprinting but walking, the childish excitement in his eyes replaced with something more calm. I was confused: what had happened to the boy I knew?

Time has passed.