Chapter 1

============================================================

DEDICATION

For every child who has ever whispered a wish to the wind and believed the world was listening.

============================================================

There was a tree in Maple Park that everyone called the Wishing Tree.

It was the oldest tree in the neighborhood — a massive oak with branches that reached out in every direction like arms trying to hug the sky. Its trunk was so wide that three children holding hands couldn't reach all the way around it. In spring, it wore a crown of bright green leaves. In autumn, it turned gold and orange, and the leaves fell like coins from a giant's pocket.

Nobody knew exactly how old the tree was. Mr. Hernandez, who had lived on Maple Street for sixty years, said it was already old when he was a boy. His grandmother had called it "el árbol de los deseos" — the tree of wishes — because she believed that if you pressed your hand against the bark and whispered something you truly needed, the tree would help.

"Not wanted," Mr. Hernandez always corrected when he told this story. "Needed. My grandmother said the tree knows the difference."

Seven-year-old Saba had heard the story a hundred times, and she believed every word. Not because she was gullible — Saba was actually one of the most practical kids in second grade. She believed because she'd seen it work.

Last spring, Saba had pressed her hand to the rough bark of the Wishing Tree and whispered, "I need a friend." She'd just moved to Maple Street and didn't know anyone. She felt invisible — the new girl with the dark eyes and the funny name that nobody could pronounce right.

Three days later, a boy named Ezra moved into the house across the street. He was also new. He was also lonely. And on his very first day, he walked straight to the Wishing Tree, pressed his hand against the bark, and whispered something Saba couldn't hear.

She walked over to him. "What did you wish for?" she asked.

"That's between me and the tree," Ezra said. But he smiled, and Saba smiled, and by the end of the day they were best friends.

"See?" Saba told her mother that night. "The tree works."

Her mother, who was a scientist and believed in evidence-based thinking, said, "Or maybe you and Ezra just both needed a friend at the same time."

"That's what I said. The tree works."

Now it was September, and Saba and Ezra visited the Wishing Tree every day after school. They sat under its branches and did homework, told stories, and watched the leaves change color. The tree was their place — their headquarters, their thinking spot, their refuge from everything loud and confusing about being seven years old in a complicated world.

But today, something was different. Today, there was a sign nailed to the trunk of the Wishing Tree.

Saba read the sign three times. Then she turned to Ezra with fire in her eyes.

"They want to cut down our tree."

Ezra's face went pale. "They can't do that."

"They think they can. But they're wrong."

============================================================

Saba was not the kind of kid who panicked. She was the kind of kid who made plans.

"First," she told Ezra at lunch the next day, "we need information. Why do they want to cut it down? What is the Maple Park Renovation Project? Who decided this?"

They went to the library after school. Mrs. Yamamoto, the librarian, helped them find the Parks Department website on the computer. The Maple Park Renovation Project was a plan to "modernize" the park — new playground equipment, a paved walking path, a parking lot, and a "multi-use recreation area" where the Wishing Tree currently stood.

"A parking lot?" Ezra said. "They want to cut down a tree that's probably two hundred years old for a PARKING LOT?"

"Not just any tree," Saba said. "Our tree."

Mrs. Yamamoto, who had been listening, pulled up a chair. "I remember that tree from when I was a girl," she said. "We used to have picnics under it. My mother said it was the oldest living thing in the neighborhood."

"How old do you think it is?" Saba asked.

"There's a way to find out. But you'd need help from someone who knows trees."

She gave them the name of Dr. Patricia Chen, a dendrochronologist at the state university. Saba didn't know what a dendrochronologist was, but it sounded impressive.

"She studies tree rings," Mrs. Yamamoto explained. "She can tell exactly how old a tree is by looking at its trunk."

Saba's mother — the scientist — helped her write an email to Dr. Chen that night. It was formal and polite, the way her mother said professional emails should be.

"Dear Dr. Chen, My name is Saba Khorasani. I am seven years old and I am trying to save a tree in my neighborhood that is scheduled to be cut down. We believe it may be very old and historically significant. Could you help us determine its age? Thank you for your time."

"She said yes!" Saba showed Ezra the email on her mom's phone.

"She said 'delighted,'" Ezra noted. "Scientists don't say 'delighted' about just anything."

============================================================

Dr. Chen arrived on Saturday morning with a tool bag, a notebook, and a measuring tape. She was a small woman with gray-streaked hair and the kind of eyes that looked at everything like it was fascinating.

"Oh my," she said when she saw the Wishing Tree. She stood at the base and looked up into the canopy, turning slowly, taking it all in. "Oh, this is a magnificent specimen."

"Like a blood test," she told Saba and Ezra. "We take a tiny piece and read its history."

While they waited for the lab analysis, Dr. Chen estimated based on the trunk size.

"For a white oak in this climate, with a circumference of fourteen feet... I'd estimate this tree is between two hundred and two hundred and fifty years old."

Saba and Ezra looked at each other.

"That means it was alive during the American Revolution," Ezra said. He was a history nerd.

"It was alive before there was a neighborhood here," Dr. Chen said. "Before there was a park here. This tree has been growing on this spot since before the Declaration of Independence was signed."

"And they want to cut it down for a parking lot," Saba said flatly.

Dr. Chen's expression hardened. "I'll have my full report ready in a week. But I can tell you now — this tree meets the criteria for designation as a Heritage Tree under the state's environmental protection statutes. If it's designated, it can't be removed without a lengthy review process and significant justification."

"What does that mean in kid words?" Ezra asked.

"It means that if we can prove this tree is old enough and significant enough, the law protects it. The Parks Department would need a very good reason to cut it down, and 'we want a parking lot' probably isn't good enough."

Saba felt something bloom in her chest — a warm, fierce feeling that was part hope and part determination.

"We're going to save this tree," she said.

"I believe you will," Dr. Chen said.

============================================================

Saba and Ezra needed the community behind them. A Heritage Tree designation would be stronger if the whole neighborhood supported it.

SAVE THE WISHING TREE! The Wishing Tree in Maple Park is over 200 years old. It is the oldest living thing in our neighborhood. The Parks Department wants to cut it down for a parking lot. We believe this tree should be protected as a Heritage Tree. If you agree, please sign below.

They set up a table at the park entrance on Sunday morning. Ezra brought lemonade (his mom's recipe, with real lemons). Saba brought cookies (store-bought, because she was honest about her baking skills).

The first hour was slow. A few joggers signed without stopping. A dog walker paused to read the poster, then signed and donated five dollars that Saba politely declined because they weren't fundraising, they were petition-gathering.

Then Mr. Hernandez came by. He read the petition, took the pen, and signed his name in big, bold letters.

"My grandmother would have been here," he said. "She loved that tree more than anything in this park."

After Mr. Hernandez signed, something shifted. People saw him standing at the table and came over. Some of them knew the tree. Some didn't. But when they heard it was two hundred years old and scheduled for demolition, they signed.

By noon, they had forty-seven signatures. By the end of the day, eighty-three.

A woman named Mrs. Okafor brought her three children and signed for the whole family. "My daughter was born the same year we moved to this street," she said. "Her first steps were under that tree. You don't cut down something that's been holding up the sky for two centuries."

A teenager named Marcus stopped on his skateboard. "Yo, they're cutting down the big tree? That's messed up. Where do I sign?"

Even the mail carrier signed, though she wasn't technically a resident. "I've been delivering mail past that tree for twelve years," she said. "It's the only thing on my route that waves at me."

Saba looked at the petition — eighty-three names from eighty-three people who cared about a tree they saw every day but maybe never thought about until now.

"We need more," she told Ezra. "We need the whole neighborhood."

"Then we go door to door."

Over the next week, Saba and Ezra knocked on every door within six blocks of Maple Park. Their parents walked with them (for safety), but the kids did the talking. They explained the tree's age, its history, and the plan to remove it.

By the end of the week, they had 214 signatures.

============================================================

The Parks Department held a public comment session on the Maple Park Renovation Project on a Wednesday evening.

Saba had never been to a government meeting before. The room was beige and fluorescent-lit, with rows of folding chairs and a long table at the front where five adults in suits sat looking official. About fifty people filled the chairs — some from the neighborhood, some from the construction company that would do the renovation.

Saba's mom sat next to her. "You don't have to speak if you don't want to," she whispered.

"I want to," Saba said. Her stomach was doing cartwheels, but she'd practiced her speech fourteen times in front of the bathroom mirror.

The meeting started with a presentation from the Parks Department. Slides showed the "exciting new vision" for Maple Park — a modern playground, the walking path, the parking lot. The tree was not in any of the slides. It had already been erased from the plan, as if it didn't exist.

Then the floor opened for public comment.

Mr. Hernandez went first. He spoke in English and Spanish, telling the story of his grandmother and the tree of wishes. His voice shook, but his words were steady.

Then Saba walked to the microphone. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it.

"My name is Saba Khorasani," she said. "I'm seven years old. I live on Maple Street and the Wishing Tree is the most important thing in my neighborhood."

The room was quiet.

"When I moved here, I didn't have any friends. I put my hand on that tree and wished for one. Three days later, I met Ezra. Maybe that's a coincidence. But 214 people signed this petition because that tree means something to them too. Mr. Hernandez's grandmother loved it. Mrs. Okafor's daughter took her first steps under it. Dr. Chen says it's 237 years old. That means it's been growing since before America was a country."

She looked at the five adults at the table.

"You want to cut it down for a parking lot. But people don't come to parks for parking lots. They come for trees. They come for the thing that's alive and old and beautiful and can't be replaced. You can build a parking lot anywhere. You can't grow a 237-year-old tree anywhere. It took 237 years. And you want to destroy it in one afternoon."

She placed the petition on the table — all 214 signatures.

"Please save our tree. It's been waiting for us a lot longer than we've been waiting for you."

She walked back to her seat. Her knees were shaking. Her mom squeezed her hand.

The room erupted in applause.

============================================================

The Parks Department said they would "take the public comments under advisement."

That meant waiting. And waiting was the hardest part.

Days passed. Then a week. Then two. The October 15 removal date crept closer. Saba checked the park every morning, half expecting to find construction equipment parked next to the tree.

"What if they don't listen?" she asked Ezra one afternoon, sitting under the Wishing Tree's branches.

"They have to listen. Two hundred and fourteen people signed."

"But they're the government. They can do what they want."

"Not if enough people care."

Ezra was right, but the waiting was still terrible. Saba felt powerless — a seven-year-old against a government department and a construction company.

"What does that mean?" Saba asked.

"It means the state is looking at whether your tree qualifies for legal protection," her mom said. "And while they're looking, the city can't touch it."

"So the tree is safe?"

"For now. The review takes thirty days."

Thirty days of safety. But what happened after that?

Saba went to the Wishing Tree that evening. She pressed her hand against the bark — rough, warm, alive under her palm. She could feel a faint vibration, like a heartbeat, though she knew that was probably just the wind in the branches.

"Hang on," she whispered. "We're fighting for you."

============================================================

On November 12, the Heritage Tree Review Board issued its decision.

Saba found out at school. Her mom texted her teacher, who read the message and immediately went to find Saba on the playground.

"Saba," Mrs. Chang said, and she was smiling so wide her face looked like it might split. "The Wishing Tree has been officially designated as a State Heritage Tree. It's protected. They can't cut it down."

Saba stood completely still for three seconds. Then she screamed — a joyful, explosive scream that made every kid on the playground turn around.

"WE SAVED IT!" she yelled. "WE SAVED THE TREE!"

Ezra heard her from across the field and sprinted over. When he heard the news, he grabbed Saba's hands and they jumped up and down together, screaming and laughing, while the entire playground watched in confusion.

That evening, the neighborhood gathered at Maple Park. Someone had tied a big ribbon around the Wishing Tree — gold and green, the colors of autumn. Mr. Hernandez brought flowers. Mrs. Okafor brought cake. Marcus brought his skateboard and did tricks on the path while everyone cheered.

"They redesigned the whole plan around the tree," Saba's mom said, reading the press release on her phone. "They're calling it 'The Heritage Oak Park Plan.'"

"It has a name now," Saba said. "The Heritage Oak."

"It already had a name," Ezra said. "The Wishing Tree."

"It can have both."

============================================================

Spring came, and with it, the new Maple Park.

The playground was beautiful — modern, accessible, colorful. The walking path curved through gardens planted by neighborhood volunteers. And at the center of everything, the Wishing Tree stood taller and prouder than ever, its branches stretching over the new playground like a guardian's arms.

THE WISHING TREE White Oak, est. ~1789 Designated State Heritage Tree, 2026 Saved by Saba Khorasani, Ezra Kim, and 214 neighbors who believed that some things are worth fighting for.

Saba stood in front of the plaque and felt a complicated feeling — pride and humility and something deeper, something she didn't have a word for yet. The feeling of knowing you changed something that mattered.

Ezra stood next to her. "Your name is on a plaque," he said.

"Your name too."

"And 214 other people."

"That's the best part. It wasn't just us."

They sat under the tree — their spot, the same spot where they'd done homework and told stories and planned their campaign. The bark was warm against Saba's back. The leaves rustled in the breeze, making a sound like gentle applause.

"Hey Saba?" Ezra said.

"Yeah?"

"Remember when you told me the tree granted wishes?"

"It does."

"I never told you what I wished for. That first day, when I moved here."

"What did you wish for?"

Ezra smiled. "A friend. Same as you."

Saba laughed. She pressed her hand against the bark one more time and closed her eyes. She didn't make a wish this time. She just said thank you.

The tree rustled its leaves. And somewhere in its ancient rings — in the circles of growth that marked every year of its long, patient life — a new ring was forming. The ring for this year. The year two kids and a neighborhood proved that small voices, when they speak together, can save something that's been growing since before any of them were born.

The Wishing Tree stood in the sun, roots deep, branches wide, alive and protected and full of wishes yet to come.

============================================================

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Crimson Ark Publishing publishes fiction for readers of all ages, drawing on the spiritual principles and rich cultural heritage of the Bahá'í Faith. Our stories explore themes of unity, justice, courage, and the transformative power of love — through characters and communities that reflect the beautiful diversity of the human family. Every book is an invitation to see the world not only as it is, but as it could be.

Visit us at crimsonarkpublishing.com