Peaceful Alfred

Happy new month guys!!
February be nice 😊

When the Mango Tree Still Waits
In a small village where the road turned to dust before it turned to hope, there lived a girl named Sewa. Every evening, she sat beneath the old mango tree behind her house, counting the minutes the sun took to disappear.
Her mother used to sit there too.
Before sickness learned her name, Mama would braid Sewa’s hair under that same tree, humming songs that sounded like prayers. She’d say, “No matter how far life carries you, this tree will always remember you.”
Then one rainy season, Mama didn’t come back from the hospital.
The house became quieter. Too quiet. Even the mango tree stopped bearing fruit that year.
Sewa’s father tried, but grief is a language some people don’t know how to speak. So Sewa learned to be strong in silence. She fetched water, cooked meals, and smiled when neighbors said, “You’re brave.”
But at night, she cried into her pillow so no one would hear how much she missed being small.
Years passed.
One evening, tired from school and life, Sewa returned home and sat under the mango tree again. The wind moved through the branches like a whisper.
A mango fell.
Just one.
She picked it up, heart racing. The tree hadn’t borne fruit in years.
Holding it close, she remembered her mother’s words. And for the first time since Mama left, Sewa didn’t feel alone. She felt… watched over.
That night, she shared the mango with her father. They laughed softly, the way they used to. Grief loosened its grip just a little.
From that day on, the mango tree bore fruit again.
Not because time healed everything—but because love never truly leaves. It just waits… patiently… like a tree that remembers.

The Girl the River Chose
Every morning, before the sun fully woke, Amara stood by the river with her bare feet in the cool sand. The village believed the river had a spirit—old, watchful, and picky about who it listened to. Most people came to fetch water and left quickly. Amara stayed.
She talked to the river like it was a friend.
“Good morning,” she’d whisper, dipping her fingers into the gentle flow. “Please don’t be angry today.”
Her mother warned her.
“Don’t linger there, Amara. Rivers hear more than they speak.”
But Amara couldn’t help it. Ever since her father disappeared during the last rainy season, the river was the only place where her heart felt quiet.
One afternoon, dark clouds gathered too fast. The wind howled, trees bent, and the river swelled angrily. Villagers screamed for everyone to run—but Amara saw something else.
A small boy had slipped.
Without thinking, she ran toward the water. The river roared, pulling at her legs, testing her courage. Amara closed her eyes and spoke—not loudly, not bravely, just honestly.
“Please,” she cried. “Take me if you must, but spare him.”
The river paused.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then, gently, it pushed the boy back to shore.
When the storm ended, the villagers stared at Amara like she was a miracle wrapped in muddy clothes. From that day on, the river never flooded the village again.
And every morning, when Amara came to greet it, the water flowed soft and calm—
as if bowing to the girl it had chosen to listen to.

New week, new blessings 😊

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Hope your day was good?