He sat there, on one of the benches, and stared, for the last time, at the tree in front of him.

Hanging from the tree was a large, blank clock that was nailed into the tree by the rusty kitchen knife. Yet that was not what held the man’s attention, it was the person standing on one of the tree’s branches playing the flute. The melody was simple, two alternating notes in ominous tones. The man saw a clone of himself playing that flute, it was the one on the branches.

A fire spread out from the base of the tree and enveloped it fully, spreading to the building surrounding it, consuming all. It was everything. It was fire, the clone of the man playing the flute, the clock, and the rusty kitchen knife.

The man stood from his bench and walked forward. The flaming tree was pulling him with its silent voice. The man slowly walked into the fire, allowing it to devour him. This was it, after all, it was the tree.

When the man succumbed to its flames, the fire vanished, the man playing the flute, the clock, and the knife all disappearing. Everything was back to how it was.