His head protrudes like the top of a bust, only he’s trying to free himself before the silent executioners terrorizing the city reach him and his home; the tree.
Every morning he sticks out a little further. He watches us for help, and his head turns as we walk past him, voiceless and in pain. He looks exhausted, afraid and trapped.
We debate whether we should help him or not. Whether we should gather our tools and creep out of our houses at night before the executioners get to him. Whether we should free him, save his home and reward his efforts.
By the time we decide to take action there’s nothing left of him but a stump. We look down at the rings left by his soul and go back home knowing he may have been the last one we could have saved before the overseers create a reason to cut us out too.