A Tree Grows In Brooklyn Audiobook Novels & Stories

She slid down to sit cross-legged in front of it, barefoot toes curling against the grass, hair slightly messy, eyes wide with intense focus… and drunken determination. Richard skidded to a stop a few feet away, hands on his hips, jaw tight. “Seriously? A tree? You’re sitting in front of a tree in the middle of Manhattan?!” She waved a hand dramatically, as if presenting her life’s work. “Exactly! The perfect… perfect… subject!” Her words slurred, hiccuping every few seconds. “The… tree… it… it has secrets! Research… energy… observation!” He blinked, staring at her incredulously. “You’re… you’re doing science experiments… on a tree… at 2 a.m… barefoot… in your heels nowhere in sight?”

Brooklyn- A twig behind me snapped, alerting me that one of the wolves was approaching me. Focusing my attention on the sounds coming from behind me, I tuned out the voices of Chad and his father talking. Whatever they were saying wasn’t that important, at least not to me. I heard the sound of a dried leaf being crushed, this time a little closer. Not bothering to turn around, I allowed my senses to concentrate on everything around me. I felt the wind gentle, yet just a bit chilly, whip around me like a soothing caress.

“When I say I grow up in a three-bedroom in Brooklyn I want you to understand that I mean a three-bedroom in Brooklyn.” The corner of his mouth moves. Just slightly. “I know,” he says. “I like Brooklyn.” I look back at the house. “Of course you do,” I say. “You have the whole of this and you like Brooklyn.” He almost smiles. “Brooklyn has better coffee.” “It absolutely does,” I agree. -----

To give me a lesson on trees? “This tree has withstood a lot, Eden. Wind. Storms. Rain. Other trees have fallen around it. But it refused to fall. It just kept…growing.” “That’s very poetic, Zane,” I chuckled. “But is that really what you want to talk about?”

" I stood on my balcony looking toward the elevated highway. Traffic flowed like a glowing river without a visible destination. My father's recovery was progressing well, and he could eat without assistance again. I returned to work, recovered the performance pay I had lost during my suspension, and was promoted to supervisor at the end of the year. I renovated the house again and installed a fingerprint lock on the primary bedroom. A new pothos stood in the living room, its leaves bright green. Natalie asked, "Not planning to meet someone new?" I shook my head. "I want to get my own life in order first. "After that, we'll see." A breeze entered through the window, and the pothos leaves move

Literally. I knelt down, lifting a small tree that had been prepared in a pot of dark, rich soil. Its leaves looked fresh, its stem slender yet sturdy, as if it knew this place would bear witness to something great. Alpha King stood behind me, silent and observant, giving me space, but I could feel his gaze enveloping my back. “Grow well,” I said, as if the object before me could respond to my words. My hands slowly dug into the soil. The cold seeped through the gaps between my fingers, rough yet soothing. I lowered the small tree into the hole I had made, then began to cover it back up with soil.

“That wasn’t me.” But then the voice came again, louder this time, closer. “You run from the seal, but you are the crack. You fear the fire, but you are its breath. You are not holding back the end. You are its beginning.” The trees began to warp. Not break. Not shatter. They bent inward, like they were leaning toward me. Like they were listening. Maxwell came into view again, his blade drawn, eyes wild. “We need to move. Now.”

The tree in its full canopy, the branch structure present underneath, the decisions of the early years held in the wood. The 47 arrived. He got on. He found his window seat. He watched the amber October city move through the glass — the leaves at their turning, the light at its October angle, the specific quality of the city in the first week of this month that he had been reading for four years with increasing accuracy, the vocabulary of it richer each time.

Every life a story. Nova stared in awe. The tree radiated warmth. Peace. Sorrow. Love. The emotions washed through existence like waves. The Graveyard's voice softened. This is the Last Tree. Silence followed. The First Memory immediately began crying. The Witnesses stared in wonder. The Forgotten fell to their knees. Even Origin looked humbled. Nova couldn't look away. Because beneath the tree sat someone. A figure. Waiting. Watching. Smiling. The person looked ordinary. A simple traveler.

If the hedge wants payment for entry, it can have fabric. I have paid worse. When I reach the old boundary tree, I stop. It’s not remarkable to look at, which is why it works. A thick oak with bark like layered scars. The kind of tree people pass a thousand times without remembering. The kind of tree that survives because it’s uninteresting. I press my palm to its trunk. The wood is cold. Alive. I close my eyes and listen. Not with ears. With the part of me that learned early that silence has texture.