It all started with a tree. Just one. An old chestnut tree, the one at the top of the path where Frida, every afternoon, scolds everyone before they even start running.
That day the Band met at 2:32, two minutes late because Camilla had done three warm-up runs. When they arrived under the chestnut tree, the tree spoke. It didn't scream, it didn't cough. It spoke. In a serious, slow, deep voice it said only: "One at a time."
Frida stopped dead in her tracks. “Who said that?”
“Not I,” Marduk replied, “but if you wish, I will kiss you to be sure.”
Shiva looked up. “It was the tree.”
“Do trees talk?” asked Lina, already perched on a branch.
“Only when they really need it,” Sam said, sitting on the grass.
Skye, in doubt, settled into the shade and took a sip from her drink.
The tree repeated, “One. At. A. Time.”
“Maybe it's a riddle,” Camilla said, skipping.
“Maybe it's a threat,” Frida muttered.
“Maybe he's teaching us to slow down,” Shiva suggested.
“Or to be more polite,” Sam added.
“Or get us all wet!” shouted Lina, who in the meantime had ended up in a stream.
That day every tree on the path began to talk. One told jokes about acorns, one whispered winter stories even though it was summer, one recited crooked but sweet poems.
The Band sat down to listen. No one ran, no one barked, no one yelled (almost). They just stood there, in a circle, like children in a fairy tale.
And they understood one thing. Trees don't talk by chance. They only talk when someone really listens to them. And that day, the Valbasca Band had their ears wide open.
When the sun began to disappear between the leaves, the chestnut tree said only: "Thank you."
Frida nodded, as if she had known all along. Camilla jogged in a circle to celebrate. Shiva counted: they were all there. Marduk kissed a root. Lina shook the water off her body. Sam closed his eyes. And Skye, before she went, turned to the tree and whispered, “See you tomorrow.” 