Hazelnuts

The hazelnut tree, a sturdy sentinel in the corner of the yard, bore fruit for the first time since the Great Drought. Its branches, once skeletal and forlorn, now sported clusters of supple green leaves, each tipped with the promise of a nut. As the sun began to set, casting a warm golden light across the land, the air was filled with the unmistakable scent of hazelnuts roasting over an open fire.

The squirrels, usually so busy scurrying about and hoarding food for the winter, paused in their frantic activities to nibble on the succulent nuts. Even the birds, perched high in the branches of the tree, paused to sample the sweet flesh before discarding the shells to the ground below. The children, who had been playing tag around the tree, froze in mid-step, their eyes widening in wonder as they inhaled the intoxicating aroma.

The old woman, who had lived in the small cottage at the foot of the tree for as long as anyone could remember, stepped out onto her front porch. She surveyed the scene before her with a satisfied smile, her wrinkled hands folded over the simple apron she wore. "Ah," she sighed, "it's a good year for hazelnuts." And with that, she retreated inside to prepare a batch of her famous hazelnut torte, the secret recipe she had been perfecting since she was a girl.