PROSE – WWP #395
Every morning, Elías stood before the vow tree—the one with his father’s face etched in bark. Its eyes never moved, but somehow, it watched. When Elías broke a promise, the mouth curled in silent disapproval. He learned to speak carefully, act deliberately. To commit was no longer abstract. It was rooted, ancient, and watching. The tree remembered. And it never forgave.
Memoirs of Madness 