Title: The Last Mango Tree
In a quiet village nestled between green hills, there stood a single mango tree—old, tall, and wise. It had been there longer than anyone could remember, bearing fruit every summer without fail. Children played under its shade, elders sat beneath its branches telling stories, and birds sang in its leaves from dawn to dusk.
But one year, the rains didn’t come. The land cracked with thirst. Crops failed. Wells dried up. And the villagers grew desperate.
One morning, a boy named Juma stood in front of the tree holding a rusty axe. The village elders had decided: the tree must be cut for firewood. It would warm them and maybe cook the little food they had left.
Juma raised the axe, but stopped when he noticed a small mango hanging from a branch. Just one. Golden, ripe, and glowing in the sun.
He climbed the tree, picked the fruit, and took it to the village square.
“Let’s plant the seed,” he said. “If this tree gave us one last mango, maybe it’s telling us not to give up.”
The villagers, tired but moved by the boy’s hope, agreed. They dug a hole, placed the seed in the earth, and watered it with the little they had.
Years passed. Rains returned. And one day, a new tree stood beside the old one—green, strong, and full of life.
From then on, the village never cut the mango tree. It had given them more than fruit—it had given them hope.
Would you like another story in a specific genre (e.g., horror, romance, sci-fi)?
In a quiet village nestled between green hills, there stood a single mango tree—old, tall, and wise. It had been there longer than anyone could remember, bearing fruit every summer without fail. Children played under its shade, elders sat beneath its branches telling stories, and birds sang in its leaves from dawn to dusk.
But one year, the rains didn’t come. The land cracked with thirst. Crops failed. Wells dried up. And the villagers grew desperate.
One morning, a boy named Juma stood in front of the tree holding a rusty axe. The village elders had decided: the tree must be cut for firewood. It would warm them and maybe cook the little food they had left.
Juma raised the axe, but stopped when he noticed a small mango hanging from a branch. Just one. Golden, ripe, and glowing in the sun.
He climbed the tree, picked the fruit, and took it to the village square.
“Let’s plant the seed,” he said. “If this tree gave us one last mango, maybe it’s telling us not to give up.”
The villagers, tired but moved by the boy’s hope, agreed. They dug a hole, placed the seed in the earth, and watered it with the little they had.
Years passed. Rains returned. And one day, a new tree stood beside the old one—green, strong, and full of life.
From then on, the village never cut the mango tree. It had given them more than fruit—it had given them hope.
Would you like another story in a specific genre (e.g., horror, romance, sci-fi)?