A Tree Grows In Brooklyn Audiobook Novels & Stories

New York. Brooklyn. Thursday. 12:34 AM. ​The air in Brooklyn always felt different than the air in Manhattan. It was heavier, more grounded, smelling of wet asphalt and woodsmoke rather than the sterile, metallic scent of high-rise power. Scarlett sat in the passenger seat of the black sedan, her fingers digging into the leather upholstery as Xavier navigated the quiet streets of Boerum Hill.

He pull himself to the tree, puts his back supported by the tree. "Something is clearly wrong here because it makes no sense whatsoever. It is a lie. It is wrong." Abednego's doubts flickers. There’s a very loud thump-scratch at the trap place to oak tree that makes Abednego flinch. He forgot about It, but he don’t care to hide now. He finally listen to it silently with bated breath. A man begins to speak in a very clipped way from the trees.

Kevin presses the granola bar into my palm like an oath. We turn toward the path, the roots stepping us down as if the forest itself approves. Behind us, the Mother Tree whispers in the breeze, and under that whisper, softer but steady, I swear I hear it—the slow, patient sound of something shifting in the foundations. Not thunder. But something brighter. A beginning.

It might be just tall enough. Letting out a deep, primal growl, like that might somehow make me stronger, I place both hands onto the trunk and heave. The trunk creaks and slowly bends to my will. Splintering out below my hands the tree slowly edged it’s way towards the ground, shedding leaves and rustling as it crashed against the other branches. “Get back here now! What the hell kind of man are you!”

He came in like a hurricane and rocked my world—I fell in love, hard, without even noticing. The grief in my chest spreads and wraps around me, and I pant into the air, watching my breath evaporate as I stare at the tree of life before me. The branches still hold colorful leaves, but they are rapidly turning grey as if the tree of life is dying. I take the shape of a human, crying as I place my shaking palm on the trunk. "You got to help me..." The tree doesn't reply. The shadow creepers are making strange gurgling noises in the background, and I close my eyes shut.

My hair's doing this thing where it tries to braid itself just to get out of the way. "You could be more helpful, you know," I mutter. "You see me walking the wrong way. But do you stop me? No. You wait. You enjoy this." He doesn't deny it. Of course not. The Mother Tree taught me patience. Patience and how to make tea out of bark. How to sense shifting auras in the soil. How to listen to plants, not just hear them. Years of training under roots so old they whispered the memories of stars, and yet none of it prepared me for Winthrop's sass.

Some are simply continuations we’re not ready to follow—yet. I turned back toward the Grove of Once, where the stones whisper names no longer spoken aloud. The children had left small offerings beside each one: petals, feathers, folded bits of twilight. None of it made sense. All of it mattered. In the center of the grove, a new tree had sprouted. It had not been there yesterday. Its bark was smooth as breath, its leaves curled like listening. A sign, perhaps, that something had been heard. I knelt beside it and traced one leaf with a fingertip. It pulsed beneath my touch—not like life, but like attention. And I realized:

“I don’t know how long I walked like that. Time didn’t make sense anymore. Then suddenly, I stopped. Just like that.” His voice dropped slightly. “Out of nowhere, trees started growing around me. Not slowly—fast. Too fast. Hemlock trees, thick bushes… all pushing out of the ground like they’d been waiting for that moment. And there was this dark mist around them. Not normal fog—it felt… strange. Heavy.” He swallowed.

_*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> POV: Adam _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> He approached the Tree with steps that had found a different quality than the uncertain stumbling that had brought him to the grove. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3">

I could still hear the murmur of the others talking, concern colouring the tone of their conversation, but I pushed away the feeling of being watched and spoken about. I breathed in a lungful of bitterly cold air. I felt it fog against my lips as I exhaled. But my next breath was warmer, and my next one warmer still. I opened my eyes, right as Rhiannon gasped. “The leaves!” I looked up. Buds were bobbling along the branches of the tree, unfurling before my eyes into bright green leaves, which grew darker the longer I watched. Compound leaves, I noted distantly. It was an ash.