This is a podcast for children (and grown-ups)who see the world a little slanted—who feel things deeply, ask big questions,and crave stories with truth stitched into the seams.
Each episode is a gentle offering: whispered parables,healing folklore,and sometimes a quiet lesson tucked between the leaves.
Come sit by the roots.The stories are waiting.
Welcome to The Hollow Tree.Today’s story is a quiet one—for the children who came without a crowd,for the ones who wonder if just me is enough,and for the grownups who carry questions they’ve never said aloud.
It’s a tale about stars, longing, and the kind of love that doesn’t always look like more.A myth for the only ones—who were never truly alone.
Let’s Begin.
The One Who Was the Whole Sky
A Hollow Tree Myth for the Ones Who Came Alone
And now, the tale
Once there was a child who came into the world like a soft bell—one note, clear and whole.
There were no brothers to chase,no sisters to braid trouble with.Just them.Just one.
Sometimes, the child would spin in the garden with no one watching.Sometimes, they whispered jokes to the broomor made tiny feasts for the shadow under the bed.
And sometimes, when the wind paused to listen,they would ask questions no one had taught them how to ask.
People would ask the mother,“Only one?”
And her smile would fold just a little at the edges.
The child saw it.Children always see it.That moment where her eyes dimmed—like a window remembering rain.
The child would go back to their games.To the invisible fox with green eyes,to the cloud who spoke in riddlesand sometimes wept over the roses.
But a question began to grow in them,slow and root-deep:
Was I enough?Was I all she wanted?Or was I just the one who came?
That night,the Hollow Tree whispered a story.
“There are mothers,” it said,“whose hearts stretched wide to welcome more than one,but only one came.Not because the others weren’t wanted—but because one star burned so brightly,the others stayed behind to let it shine.”
The child blinked up at the branches.Their voice was soft.
“So… I’m not missing someone?”
“You might be,” said the Tree,its bark creaking like an old gate in the wind.“Or you might be carrying them.
Some children hold the echo of a sibling in their laugh,or in the wild way they dream,or in the way they dance when no one’s looking—like they’re trying to lift someone else’s joy, too.”
The child was quiet.The snow made hush-hush sounds on the roof.
“And if there was never going to be more?”
“Then you,” the Tree said,“were the entire sky’s idea of enough.
Not the last star.The chosen star.The chorus in one voice.The whole story, spoken aloud.”
The child curled into a quilt that smelled of cedar and honey.And in her own room, the mother—who had once dimmed—felt her heart steady in her chest,as if someone had finally spokenthe thing she could never quite say.
Because one is not a lack.One is a cosmic yes.
To the listeners. To the whisper-hearers. To the ones who hold story before it has shape:
We see you. We thank you. We will keep writing.
—Written by Amber Jensen and the voices of The Hollow Tree
If this story stirred something in you…You can keep The Hollow Tree lit by subscribing, sharing it with someone who listens like you do, or leaving a kind note.
Everything here is offered with care.And every listen, every share, every whisper down the line—it matters. 🌲
