Enchanted Tree and Portal of Time

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The path led Arven deeper into the grove than he had ever dared before. He had grown old, his steps more measured, but the longing for answers was stronger than the weariness of years. Since childhood, he had heard the stories: of a tree whose roots gripped not only the earth, but also the edges of the world. Many considered it a fairy tale, a legend to keep children in the villages from wandering. But Arven was never one to be satisfied with mere words. He stepped between the last trunks, and there he stood. The tree was older than any structure, thicker than a tower, its bark furrowed like a face full of secrets. A gate opened in its trunk, round as the moon, encircled by a ring of stone. Runes snaked across it, shimmering as if they had just been carved by an invisible hand. Behind it, light pulsed, not harsh, but like an invitation, promising warmth and danger at once. Arven stopped, his breath visibly hanging in the cold air. A suitcase lay in front of the gate. It was old, leather-bound, the corners reinforced with iron. But instead of smooth leather, a clockwork mechanism emblazoned on the front. The clock face didn't show an ordinary hour, but numbers that shifted as if trying to tell him something. Each beat of the hand was a heartbeat of the world. Arven approached cautiously. Beside the suitcase grew lilies, orange and vibrant, so strong they seemed alien in the frosty grove. But beside them rose gravestones that no longer bore names, worn by the wind, scarred by the rain. A garden of opposites—life and death, blossoming and decay, beginning and end. He knelt down and placed his hand on the clockwork mechanism. The metal was cold, but as soon as he touched it, images flooded his mind. His childhood, laughing by the river. His mother's face as she pressed a loaf of bread into his hand. The village he left, young, eager to seek out the world. Years of struggle, work, joy, and loss. Everything he was vibrated in the suitcase, as if he had gathered his time within himself and placed it in this vessel. Then a voice rose. It wasn't loud, not from outside, but within him, like a song he had never learned but always known. "Whoever carries the suitcase carries not only the time of the world, but also his own. Every step through the gate is a step against his own current. Will you go?" Arven closed his eyes. His heart pounded to the rhythm of the ticking. The years had tired him, but they had also taught him that standing still was just another form of ending. And the light in the gate was not an end—it was a promise. He lifted the suitcase. It wasn't heavy, but its burden was heavier than any stone because it contained everything: happiness, pain, loss, hope. As he stood up, he saw movement in the light of the gate. Silhouettes, shadowy figures, as if those who had gone before him were waiting there. "I have nothing to lose except what is already past," he murmured. His voice echoed, as if the tree itself were answering.