Bell liked trees. She liked how they breathed. They didn’t have lungs like her, or eyes for that matter. But she knew; they saw everything. Trees have different eyes, eyes that you can feel. You can hear them too. When leaves rustle or branches groan. The trees are seeing.
They saw her running first, and stopping to touch and smell each plant. She was small, and always alone. She gathered flowers and sang. The trees like her song, and Bell liked singing to the trees.
Then they saw her running again, terrified and tear-soaked. Her throbbing face crimson and wet; her hair, messy tangles. She was still small, but not the same shape. She hid behind a sturdy oak. Muffled cries and heavy sobs were all the trees heard. She stayed in the forest that night, and the trees kept watch.
Time passes slowly for trees. When Bell ran into the forest again, she was taller and thin, like a birch, with brown-bruise marks to match. She looked up to the limbs of oaks, elms, maples and pines around her. She smiled through tears, but she didn’t sing.
The trees saw her enter the forest for the last time, thrown at their feet by an intruder, buried in a hole and covered with their brown earth. The oaks, elms, maples and pines, then taught her how to breathe through her true lungs, feel with her roots, and see with her new eyes.