The Old tree
Chapter 1: When the Sun Falls
Midnight had a way of weaving silence that wrapped around the world like a thick, dark blanket. But for Ariyan, midnight was never a time to sleep. He never understood why anyone tried to close their eyes at the stroke of twelve when the mind was still restless, when the heart still beat with questions the day left unanswered. Sleep came to him only when his body could no longer bear the weight of wakefulness—when every inch of him screamed for rest, no matter the hour.
Ariyan was thirty. Not that his age mattered much, or that he cared to explain himself. This was not his story. At least, not in the way others tell theirs. This was a story he’d share only for the sake of those who needed to be entertained—or perhaps to learn something from a man who was gifted, though not in the way most believed.
Ariyan had a rare gift from God: the ability to solve problems. Not every problem in the world, but those brought to him by people who sought his help. He didn’t seek fame or fortune. He simply answered calls when he could. That was enough.
Tonight, like many nights, sleep had fled him. Restless, he slipped out of bed, pulling on his well-worn Adidas T-shirt, joggers, and shoes. He walked out into the quiet city, letting the cool air brush against his skin. For ten minutes, he wandered until the weight of exhaustion pulled at him again.
He needed to sit. Underneath an old tree, preferably.
Finding old trees in the city was a challenge; most had been cut down or lost to time. But tonight, luck was on his side. He spotted one—an ancient sentinel standing tall and proud in a quiet corner. Approaching with reverence, Ariyan whispered softly, as if the tree could understand him, "May I sit here, old friend?"
The roots spread wide, gnarled and twisted, inviting him to rest. He lowered himself onto them, feeling the rough bark against his back. From his pocket, he pulled out a cigarette—Marlboro, the only brand he ever smoked—not out of addiction, but comfort. He lit it slowly, inhaling the smoke with measured breaths.
"I’m sorry to disturb you with my smoke," he murmured to the tree, half-joking, half sincere. It might have sounded strange to anyone else, but Ariyan often felt trees held stories—silent witnesses to centuries of life, pain, joy, and survival. Sometimes, he imagined they wanted to tell him everything they had seen.
As the cigarette burned down, he let his hand rest against the bark, feeling its life pulse beneath his fingertips. When he stubbed out the cigarette, something caught his eye on the ground. A small card, half-buried beneath the roots.
Curious, he picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.
Though he was a chain smoker, tonight a strange thirst gnawed at him. The dry feeling in his throat was urgent. He stood and started walking again, searching for water, though his pockets were empty—except for the card.
He pulled it out to read: it was an advertisement for a nearby restaurant, unfamiliar but inviting. Without a phone to check directions, he relied on instinct and the dim glow of streetlights, walking for another fifteen minutes. Hunger crept in alongside thirst.
Ahead, a small bar came into view—modest and worn but offering a refuge nonetheless. Inside, the place was nearly empty. A young boy approached him, wide-eyed and hesitant.
"A bottle of water, please," Ariyan requested quietly. "And three pieces of bread with two eggs, well done."
Minutes passed. The boy returned with a simple meal. Ariyan ate slowly, savoring each bite.
Just as he finished, the bar owner appeared, holding the bill. Ariyan shook his head. "I don’t carry money."
The owner’s eyes narrowed. "We accept cards."
Ariyan smiled faintly. "I’ve never needed one."
The tension thickened. "You have to pay," the man said sharply, "or it will end badly for me."
Ariyan stood, calm but firm. "I’m here to help."
The owner scoffed. "Help? I don’t need any help."
"How’s your son?" Ariyan asked, voice steady. "It’s time to bring him out of prison. He’s been locked away nearly a year now. And he’s innocent."
"How do you know my name?" The man’s eyes flickered with a mix of fear and disbelief.
"Your bar’s name," Ariyan replied with a faint smile. "Pickle Bar. Not hard to guess."
He headed toward the door but paused. Turning back, he said quietly but with iron resolve, "You are the criminal, Mr. Pickle. Admit it. Free your son. The world needs him. I saw the fight in his eyes last time, under the old tree in the park—the same one I sat beneath tonight. He’s destined for something greater."
Then Ariyan stepped out into the night.
When the sun falls, the darkness reveals truths some would rather hide.
