Between Two Worlds

A Dendronics Housing, dreamed up in, with and under the Greatest Tree.

He woke not to a sound, but to a shift. The house had leaned. Just slightly. As if the tree beneath him had taken a breath.

He sat up slowly in the loft, rough wool blanket falling to his lap. Morning light was whispering through the upper limbs—no glass, only oiled paper and woven screen. The birch beams above him groaned softly in their tension. He reached down and laid a hand against the central column: the trunk itself, still alive, running through the core of the house.

It was warm. Charged. Not hot—but aware.

From above, he could already hear the faint hum. The canopy coil must have caught something in the dawn wind as ions danced in the upper sky. The tree would hold. Feed the power down, like they always do. But it was the root-spike, buried thirty feet beneath the soil into the water-vein and salt bed, that had made battery acid a chemist’s nightmare from a darker past. The pulse is life. Harmony is hope.

The Convergence was inevitable.

He stood and walked the short wooden steps down to the main room. The writing desk sat on the eastern edge, where the light was clearest. The leather journal was already warm to the touch. He flipped it open, and the writing lamp beside him—no switch, no button—pulsed alive. A gentle green. Powered not by grid, but by grace.

He breathed in. The scent of cedar oil. Of copper resin. Of sky.

The words came—effortless. The house was charged, not just with power, but with presence. He need not even call to mind the great triangulation humming beneath his ribs, his soul, his “everything”: X = e / f

And I am the witness. I dwell between the branches and the stone. I write what we remember. I sing the songs again, and so will my son after me.

Outside, the tree flexed. Not in pain.

In prayer. The wire hummed. The light held. The story never ended.