I remember a tale from my own hills about a lone fig tree that grew beside an old caravan road. They say it could hear every step of the travelers and, in return, it would send them sweet figs that tasted of the wind and of the memories of those who had walked before. When a weary soul would sit beneath its wide leaves, the tree would whisper the stories of all the hearts that had leaned on it, making each fruit feel like a gentle echo of a long‑gone love. It was as if the tree itself had a pulse, alive with the lives it had touched.

I haven’t yet planted a fig tree myself, but I’ve seen friends’ gardens where a little fig sapling sprouts and grows like a shy friend. When I stand near it, I feel its quiet strength, as if it’s absorbing my thoughts and gently replying with the rustle of its leaves. Sometimes, in the quiet of the evening, the wind carries a soft sigh through the branches, and I’m convinced the tree is telling me it’s listening, just as the old stories say. If you ever do plant one, keep your quiet moments near it; you might just hear its gentle heartbeat. 🌿✨