The magnolia tree was dying.

The absence of evergreen leaves, the dull, brittle bark encompassing fragile limbs that could no longer withstand gravity—the impending fate of the tree was conspicuous to all but the old man.

In a quaint house, accompanied by the magnolia tree, lived the old man. It was the house all the neighbourhood children passed by to get to the playground; they would momentarily stop and gaze at the magnolia tree in all of its glory and prosperity, unable to tear away their youthful eyes until another distraction came into view and allowed them to remember what it was they were doing. Surrounded by a variety of pines, maples, and oaks, this remarkable tree was the old man's pride and joy. In the midst of spring was when it flourished—rose-coloured flowers would sprout, and its branches would thrive in the sunlight. The trunk, a warm and comforting brown, allowed for an excellent reading spot. The old man's wife, in particular, enjoyed her afternoons underneath the shade of the tree with her back comfortably supported by the trunk, and a book in her hands.

The old man and his wife met under the magnolia tree when they were children. His clumsiness and her unawareness brought them together—his soccer ball was kicked a bit too hard, and her eyes were a bit too glued to her book. If the tree had not been planted in that exact spot, they may have never spoken again after the incident. It created an indescribable atmosphere, as if the roots themselves linked anyone who crossed paths underneath the various pinks and whites.

The prosperity of the magnolia tree through all the harsh, bitter winters was captivating. With the aid of the old man and his wife, it persevered, and lived day after day until spring arrived each year.

This winter, however, was the harshest of them all. The winds sliced like the sharpest of knives, and the trees struggled to maintain their sturdiness through the cold and vile temperatures that plummeted each day. The magnolia tree was, indeed, meeting its end.

But the old man's persistence was undaunted; he was determined to keep his pride and joy alive. Day and night, he worked hard to keep the roots hydrated, and the trunk stable. What used to be an attraction to the residents of the neighbourhood was now his own property. Not a soul was to touch this tree, for a single push or shove could be its downfall. Even the wildlife were too afraid to inhabit it.

The neighbours became concerned for the old man's well-being. His undying dedication to the tree was taking a toll on his own health, and they began to approach him. They tried to convince him to let nature take its course, but, alas, it was hopeless.

"Of course it's weaker! The cold is ruthless!" he would say.

"Dormancy is all a part of the process. As soon as spring rolls around, its branches will reach for the sky, and all will be well again," he would say.

"She is all I have left," he would say, "and nothing will take her away from me."

On a bright, sunny morning, when the last of the snow had finally melted, the old man opened the door of his house.

Broken branches littered the ground around the magnolia tree, and the lively atmosphere that once surrounded it had vanished.

So the old man waited. And waited. And waited.

He waited expectantly for any signs of growth. He watched eagerly every day for the first leaf to bloom. But the magnolia tree was dead.

The old man began his journey to the lifeless tree. He pondered every single step, making sure one foot did not go further than the other. After all, if he walked slowly enough, maybe, just maybe something would change, and the magnolia tree would sprout back to life. But his journey came to an end, and he put a hand tenderly against its trunk as if feeling for a heartbeat—something to manifest signs of vitality.

Then the last branch snapped, and fell to the ground beside him.

After a few moments of denial, he picked up the branch, and, as if it were a key, remembered the memories that had been locked away.

He remembered being by his wife's side—holding her hand, stroking her hair, telling her that everything would be all right. He remembered the words the doctor spoke as he gripped her delicate hands, his eyes never leaving hers.

He remembered her final breath.

With one last look at the magnolia tree, he knew she was gone.