The Giving Tree Book Novels & Stories

she strode toward me and handed me one book covered with silver and leather binding. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Rana. Thanks for that." I took the book with a smile on my face. "But before you read it, I have something for you. I'm sure you will like it." "Sure." I was curious and excited until she pulled my hands and dragged me somewhere to an enclosed area. Inside was an enormous tree; atop the gigantic tree were numerous plants, flowers, berries, and fruits. I felt awestruck with such beautiful flora, especially at this time.

Eleven years old, eight weeks into learning what her gift was and wasn't, already thinking about the person behind her who needed the same door she had just walked through. "Yes," I said. "That's exactly right. That's how it works." "I know," she said. "I figured that out from watching you." Outside the window, the autumn had completed its slow work on the trees — the pine line dark and unchanging, the other trees around it fully turned, the specific, beautiful stubbornness of the pines holding their green through everything the season did to everything else. Reliable, Zayden had said about them once. They don't perform the season. They just hold.

Mother said, voice cool and precise, “you know how important these final classes are. You also know you stand apart from the others, after the Bindings you have not manifested a single Gift.” Gilly swallowed and smoothed a strand of dark hair. “Yes, Mother,” she murmured, and hurried to her seat. “Good,” Mother said, then dismissed her with a small, clipped nod. As Gilly approached, a gnarled root shifted as if sensing her. Bark softened where it rose to meet her, the root and embedded tech forming a smooth, curved seat made just for her. She felt the faint, steady pulse of the Mother Tree through the root, a slow heartbeat that steadied her.

"Because you're a very special boy." He beamed at that, settling back against me. "Keep reading. I want to know what happens to the tree." I finished the story somehow, my voice barely steady. When I closed the book, Liam was quiet for a moment. "The tree gave everything away," he said thoughtfully. "Was that good or bad?" "What do you think?" "I think it was good because the boy was happy. But also sad because the tree had nothing left." "That's very wise." "Mommy says love means giving even when it's hard." He looked up at me. "Is that true?"

She smiled, but it was a mirror’s smile, not her own. Esi reached out to stop her. The child whispered: “You’re new here.” Her voice shifted mid-sentence — changing pitch, age, even accent. Tano pulled Esi back. “She’s already been rewritten.” --- At the center of the village stood a Tree of Paper — bark made of woven scrolls, roots made of black thread. The wind didn’t rustle it. It read itself. Constantly. Pages rising and falling like breath. Esi stepped close. One page fluttered loose and hovered in the air before her eyes.

The dry leaves from the tree branches as it stood tall in the verse field. A boy stood in front of the tree, its shade hovering over his head. Amilek had his hands crossed in front of him as he gazed deep at the tree branches as if waiting for someone. Today he clocked six years old, but his mother had forgotten his birthday. He was not offended, just lonely. Micah was walking towards the tree with a book in her hand; she had formed a habit of reading under the tree at the back of the palace field. Her green gown rubbed the grass as she made her way to where Amilek was.

He burned it, or at least he thought he had. But the next day, against all reason and logic, the book was there again. It reappeared, untouched, beneath that very same tree. That’s when his desperation turned to madness. He didn’t just want the book gone—he wanted the tree that birthed it destroyed. He summoned flames so fierce they licked the heavens, engulfing the tree in a sea of fire. And yet, when the smoke cleared, the tree stood unharmed. Its bark was blackened but unbroken; the only change inflicted on the book and tree was that they were pure black since then.

"I pledge to remember that all beings, regardless of species or power, deserve dignity and fair treatment, to ensure that balance serves the many rather than the few." As my palm touched the Tree's trunk, I felt an immediate connection, warmer and more intimate than before. The Tree's energy flowed through me, acknowledging not just my presence but the tiny life I carried within me. A branch lowered, offering not one fruit but two, one for me, one for Hope. I consumed the first, feeling its essence spread through me like liquid moonlight. The glow that surrounded me was golden, warm and protective. But it was what happened next that caused gasps to ripple through the assembly.

Its bark shimmered with soft veins of gold, its canopy radiating gentle warmth. The Children gathered beneath its shade, feeling peace unlike anything before. When they rested there, their hearts steadied. When they wept, the air around the tree hummed softly, absorbing their sorrow until it turned to calm. Lyra watched, her chest heavy with awe. “This tree carries memory,” she said to the Flame Child. “It takes our pain and returns it as light.” He smiled. “Then it is the Flow’s heart made visible.”

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.