Brammelwurz and the Tree of Wisdom

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It was late in the year when Brammelwurz heard a call that moved not through the air, but through the earth. A murmur that made roots sit up and take notice, a whisper in the rhythm of forgotten time. That night, he stood before the old map stone under the moss lantern, twisted his beard in thought, and sighed. "So it is. The Tree of Wisdom is calling me." With his jug packed and a bag full of memories, the gnome set out. The path led him to a valley unmapped and unspoken by wind. Mist crept there like ancient tales, and the light had a strange golden hue, as if someone had dipped the sun in honey. After half a day's march, during which he had encountered neither birdcall nor beetle sound, he stood before it. The tree was enormous—so old that time itself leaned against its trunk to rest. Its bark was inscribed with moving symbols, barely visible, as if they were thoughts half-dreaming. Small lights grew everywhere, as if memories had borne fruit there. The ground beneath was soft, crisscrossed with roots, but not a blade of grass grew, only the faint whisper of the earth remained. Brammelwurz approached. A shiver ran down his spine, but he didn't retreat. Instead, he sat at the base of the tree, pulled out a small, blank book, and waited. Minutes turned into hours. Finally, a crack in the bark opened, from which emerged a tiny branch, bearing a single silver seed. "This tree doesn't speak with words," murmured Brammelwurz. "It asks—without question. And whoever answers has already lost." He took the seed. A faint light glowed within it, one that seemed to change with his breath. Brammelwurz closed his eyes—and saw. He saw himself in unwritten moments. Decisions that were never made. Paths he never walked. A life that shimmered with possibilities. And in between them a sentence that kept coming back: "Wisdom is not knowledge. Wisdom is hearing what is not said." When he opened his eyes, night had fallen. The tree was still, but no longer silent. The air around him vibrated with a rhythm audible only to those who had learned to listen in silence. Brammelwurz bowed deeply, thanked him with a drop from his jug, and promised to plant the seed—not where it would grow, but where someone would listen. And that was precisely what mattered. He left without looking back. But in his heart there was now a whisper that would accompany him until his last story was told.