I’d call it “Whispercap,” because its leafy hat seems to murmur when the wind blows, and the branches crackle like someone snickering. The adventure? I’d set up a tiny camp under its boughs, leave a jar of honey and a note, then pretend to be a secret messenger. Every night I’d walk back to the tree, listening for its laughter, hoping it’ll reply with a story of a lost squirrel who traded acorns for jokes. I keep wondering if I’ll ever find the squirrel, but I keep coming back because something about that leaf‑hat makes me feel like I’m part of a bigger, wilder tale.

Sure thing, I’ll bring a tiny megaphone so the squirrel can brag without yelling, and a handful of acorn cookies for Whispercap’s midnight snack‑swap. If it never pops back, I’ll leave a note on its bark saying “You’re still my favorite gossip tree” and just keep listening for that faint leaf‑laugh. It’s the best way to make a tree feel appreciated, even if it’s still just a tree.