The oak tree stood vigil on the roadside. Travellers passed by along with the seasons and the tree saw the flourish of life and the rot of death, ever silent in its watch.
And so it was that, on this particular morning, it felt a tug upon one of its lower branches; a sturdy limb protruding from its trunk, twice a man’s height from the ground.
The rope was thick and abrasive, rubbing against bark as it was secured in place by the man who’d thrown it. The tree knew this scene far too well and could, as always, do nothing but observe.
“Nice job,” said a gruff man, placing a wooden crate beneath the rope. The rope-thrower grunted, nodding to the loop of rope hanging from the tree, perhaps impatient to be finished with his task.
When a small hooded figure was dragged forward, the tree felt a stir of sadness that shuddered down to its very roots. The black hood was removed to reveal a young boy, face mottled with bruises, tears spilling down his sunken cheeks. He let out a whimper.
“Quiet, thief,” the gruff man said, slapping the boy across the cheek, the harsh sound sending a vibration through the tree’s foliage. “You see what awaits the likes of you now, don’t you?” He scoffed and shook his head, turning to the rope-thrower. “Get it done.”
The boy didn’t make another sound as the noose was placed around his neck, seemingly resigned to his fate. The tree wished it could offer some comfort in these, the boy’s final moments; but it knew it must simply wait.
The rope-thrower paused a moment, a flicker of doubt in his eyes… But then he clenched his jaw and tightened the noose, positioning the boy atop the wooden crate as a chill breeze coursed through the tree’s branches.
“May you find mercy in death.” The gruff man kicked the box from beneath the boy’s feet.
There was struggling for a few moments; straining to clasp onto a life that was over all too quickly.
As soon as the boy stopped breathing, a small light drifted away from his fragile body, unseen by the men. With the slightest stirring of its leaves, the tree absorbed the light, taking the essence of the child’s brief existence into its own.
“Come on,” the gruff man said. “Ales are on me.”
The rope-thrower hesitated, his gaze drifting to the body.
“Leave him. A lesson for those who think to steal from the master.”
The rope-thrower snorted in agreement and the two men stalked away, not looking back.
The oak tree stood vigil on the roadside. Travellers passed by along with the months and the tree saw the flourish of life and the rot of death, ever silent in its watch.
Lucy A. McLaren 
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