There is a large pine tree that stands alone in a forest of maples. Every night, a little girl comes and sits under its expansive branches. With her, she brings a small black notebook and a pen. Her thoughts leave a long trail on the scarred paper, where the lines of ink ran dark.
When a few years went by, her routine was like clockwork. After a long day of school, she’d do her homework, have dinner, then go outside and sit for hours. No one ever knew it happened or wondered how far she went to show her feelings.
Decades went by, and an old woman pulled out the journal from a drawer. She held it at arm’s length, the memories flooding back to her. All those nights under a blanket of stars, each one nearly identical to the last. “I wish I had someone to pass this down to,” she whispered, a single tear running down her cheek.
The journal is found many years later by a young girl out exploring. As she picks up the journal, a sense of wonder is filled inside of her. Deciding that she should take the journal home after a long survey of the cover, she runs home and takes out her own, the pages blank and new. Smiling to herself, she later returns to the pine tree under a beautiful starry night and begins to write a tale of her own.