Lucja lives happily with her child. She feeds him, bathes him, dresses him and dotes him in every way she can. She loves her baby so much. He has bright dark eyes, and a tiny pointy nose. Tiny chubby arms and a small mouth with no lips. He has no hair and tiny leaves grow in his back. Her perfect little man, she thinks. Her perfect ray of sunshine. The neighbors are not so happy:

'Witch!' 'Demon!' They yell; 'Monster breeder.'

So she closes the doors and the windows. She closes her eyes and her ears. She closes her heart until there is only him in it. And they stay happy in their small world.

The yells don't stop, though; and when their throats are sore they go back with posters. And when the posters fall they go back with paint. And when the paint dries they go back with fire. They burn the house with the doors and the windows closed. They burn the house with the mother and the child in it. Now they are happy. They rest and celebrate. Relief washes over them as they congratulate themselves for a well done job. Nobody pays attention to the black ground. Nobody cares about what is used to be.

Until from the ashes grows a black tree. Taller than the tallest building, darker than the darkest night. No matter what they do, no matter what they try, the tree keeps growing. Drying everything in the land until the town is nothing but an endless desert. Some people run away, frightened and shaken. Not all are so lucky. The once prosperous town vanishes into oblivion. The black tree stays; watching, reigning, unopposed. And under its roots; Lucja lives happily with her child.