Do you think trees hold grudges? I didn't used to believe it either. But then I understood—trees don't hold grudges. They just wait. Wait for the day you forget the rules. Wait for the moment your saw gets stuck. Then you pull too hard, and it's all over.
My name is Lin Yuan. I came to Mingde Community's property management last March. Responsible for greenery maintenance—basically trimming branches, mowing lawns, spraying pesticides.
My dorm is a converted garage compartment, a bed and a desk, bare pipes overhead. You can hear upstairs tenants walking at midnight. I think it's fine—better than delivering food before. No sun and wind, no bad reviews deducting pay.
Mingde is an old community from the nineties. Six buildings surround a central garden. There's a huge banyan tree in the garden—Old He says it's at least fifty years old.
The banyan grows domineeringly. Its aerial roots drop down, take root in soil, become new trunks. One tree looks like a small grove. The canopy covers half the garden, keeping it cool in summer. Old people and kids all gather under it.
But Property Manager Sister Chen complains it blocks light. Especially the first-floor units, living rooms are dark all day. Got several complaint calls. She asked me to trim the branches on the building side—don't need to be too aggressive, just cut the ones blocking windows.
First time up the tree was mid-March. Old He handed me a safety rope, said tie it around your waist, watch your step climbing.
Old He is over fifty, doing greenery for over a decade. Slightly hunched back, thick knuckles, dark mud always embedded in nail beds. He doesn't talk much, but says what needs to be said.
He taught me how to climb old trees, which branches can hold you and which can't. Then he leaned against the pool edge smoking, said: "When you saw branches, if the saw gets stuck, don't yank hard. Stop first, wait three seconds, then gently pull it out."
I asked why.
"Trees have temperament." Old He extinguished his cigarette butt on the flower bed edge, "Yanking hard can break the saw."
At the time I thought he was teaching me tool maintenance. The saw was property-issued, hand saw, teeth dull, getting stuck was normal.
That day I sawed for about two hours, accumulated a small pile of branches. Got stuck twice mid-way, followed Old He's advice—stopped, counted three seconds in my head, then pulled. The saw loosened on its own. I thought Old He was a practical guy, experience really works.
After that, every month I pruned that banyan. Spring growth was wild, summer had lots of rain, branches dropped fast. Gradually I got used to it—when the saw got stuck, I'd stop, count to three, then move. Sometimes it was badly stuck, I'd wait five or six seconds more. Never had issues.
Old He didn't come around much later. He said his knees hurt, going up and down floors was hard. Mainly did ground work like mowing lawns. Tree-climbing tasks all went to me.
Occasionally he'd see me in the garden, look up at the tree a couple times. Once he stood below looking up for a long time. I squatted on a branch and asked what he was looking at.
He said: "Don't you think this tree grows especially fast this year."
I said yeah, a bit. Before, pruning lasted a month; now it droops down in twenty days.
Old He didn't answer. He took out a cigarette, lit it, took two puffs, then said: "Watch out, don't cut branches too aggressively."
"Sister Chen says cut more, first floor keeps complaining."
"Follow your own pace." Old He extinguished his cigarette, turned and left.
That was July, hot weather. I climbed the tree in the morning, sweating before ten AM. July 20th I remember clearly—it was my birthday, I'd made plans with friends for BBQ that night. I hurried to finish, climbed up and started sawing.
Sawing a thick branch on the north side, about as thick as my arm, blocking the first-floor window of Unit 2. I straddled a branch, left hand holding the branch, right hand pulling the saw. Halfway through, it suddenly got stuck.
That stuck feeling was different. Normally it's teeth caught in wood grain; this time it felt like something was gripping it. I tried—the saw didn't budge. I stopped, silently counted three seconds, then gently pulled out.
Couldn't move.
I waited a few more seconds, tried again—still stuck. Sun burned the back of my neck, I raised a hand to wipe sweat, thought maybe the saw had deformed. It was used for almost half a year, teeth were curled, Sister Chen said she'd get a new one next month.
I applied a bit more force.
Still didn't move. But right then, I felt the saw blade vibrating. Very faint, like something flicked the other end of the saw. I looked down at the stuck position—a crack in the bark, the saw embedded in it.
A bit of wet stuff oozed from the edge of the crack, dark brown, like tree sap. But wrong—banyan sap is white, I've seen it before.
I stared at that crack for a few seconds. Then I tried pushing in the opposite direction.
The saw moved. Slid out smoothly, like it had never been stuck. I picked it up to look—sawdust had brown stuff on it, sticky, smelled like rust.
I didn't think much, changed angle and continued sawing. That branch quickly broke, dropped with a *thud*, bounced once on the ground. I climbed down, dragged the branches to the tricycle, hauled to the waste station.
At lunch I washed my hands at the sink. Water washed off the mud and sap, but I noticed a faint red mark on the base of my right thumb, like something had tightened around it. I rubbed it, didn't hurt, didn't think about it.
Got back to the dorm near twelve after BBQ that night. Showered, lay down, scrolled my phone, preparing to sleep. Half-asleep I heard sound in the pipes overhead.
Water flowing sound, very faint, but the rhythm was wrong. Normal pipes are *whoosh—whoosh—whoosh*, that's someone upstairs showering. That day's sound was different—faint, *scritch, scritch*, like something soft scraping along the inner wall inch by inch.
I turned over, pulled the blanket over my head, and fell asleep.
Next morning I went to the tool room to get things, saw Old He standing at the door. He had his hands behind his back, looking at the ground. I walked over and saw a small tuft of hair on the ground. Black, about a dozen strands, tangled together, like plucked from someone's head.
"Who lost this?" I asked casually.
Old He didn't look at me: "You pruned the tree yesterday?"
"Did. North side, that one blocking the window."
"Did the saw get stuck?"
I froze for a moment, said yes, but didn't yank hard.
Old He mm-hm'd. He squatted down, picked up that tuft of hair, clutched it in his hand, then stood up and dusted his pants. "Next time it gets stuck, don't saw that branch. Change to another one."
"Why?"
"Trees have temperament." Same words again.
Old He left. I stood there, looking at the trace left by that tuft of hair on the concrete floor at the tool room door—several broken strands embedded in the fine lines of the concrete, grayish white, glinting a little in the sunlight.
I thought about the brown stuff on the saw yesterday. Thought about what Old He said—trees have temperament. But I didn't think too deeply, or rather didn't want to. I'm just doing greenery for pay, why fight with a tree.
In August Sister Chen pushed again, said that family on the first floor of Unit 2 called headquarters again. I carried the ladder over around nine AM, sun just up, banyan leaves flipping their white edges in the wind.
I climbed the ladder, found a new branch, slightly thinner than the last one, but same position, still blocking that window.
Before sawing, I paused. Everything was quiet. Nobody at the pool, just me in the garden. I listened carefully—no sound. Banyan leaves are dense, wind rustles through *rustle rustle*, same as other trees.
I started sawing. Halfway through, it got stuck.
I stopped. Counted three seconds. Gently pulled—didn't move. Waited a few more seconds, tried again—still stuck. This time it was tighter than last time. The saw cut on that branch oozed brown stuff again, dripping down the bark, falling on my shoe.
Cold. I didn't touch that saw anymore. Instead, I let go and climbed down from the tree. When I was half-untying the safety rope, I heard sound deep in the canopy.
Like someone sighing, or like someone messing with my hair above my head. Rustling, one after another. I looked up. Branches and leaves were too dense, couldn't see anything clearly.
I collected the ladder, took the tools back, told Sister Chen I couldn't prune today, saw got stuck in the tree.
Sister Chen looked up from behind her computer, pushed up her glasses: "Why stuck again? That crappy saw should be replaced, I'll request procurement tomorrow."
I said it wasn't the saw, it was the tree.
"What's wrong with the tree?"
I couldn't say. Stood at her office door for a long time, said Old He knows, ask Old He.
Sister Chen said fine, then don't go for now, wait for the new saw.
That night I lay in bed, tossing and turning. Took out my phone and searched "banyan tree saw stuck"—all came up were gardening tips, things like maintaining saw teeth, sawing along the grain.
Searched "bury things under old banyan tree"—came up with a bunch of folk legends, tree spirits, feng shui trees, all looked made up.
But I couldn't sleep because of things online. I couldn't sleep because there was an image in my head—brown stuff on the saw that day, and that tuft of hair Old He had clutched in his hand.
Two things didn't connect, but they just stayed in my head, getting more uncomfortable the more I thought about them.
I sat up, put on slippers, walked out. Hall light was broken, I used my phone flashlight to reach the first floor. Midnight community was quiet, streetlights yellow, illuminating empty pavement.
I glanced toward the garden. The banyan's shadow cast on the ground was a dark mass, different from daytime. Like something standing. I turned back and went home.
Next day I went to find Old He. He was sitting on the lawnmower by the north gate, unscrewing the spark plug. I squatted down, said Master He I want to ask you something.
Old He glanced up at me, didn't speak, continued unscrewing.
"Is there something under that banyan tree?"
Old He's hand paused for a moment. He tightened the spark plug, put down the wrench, took out a cigarette. Lit it, took two puffs, then said: "There was a woman, about ten years ago. She hanged herself from that tree."
My throat tightened: "Hanged herself?"
"Already gone when they got her down." Old He blew out smoke, "That woman lived in Unit 2 first floor, the one that's always complaining. Her husband had someone else outside, she made a fuss for years, then couldn't take it anymore, took a rope up the tree at midnight.
Someone saw her the next morning, called police, firefighters came but she was already stiff."
I sat on the lawn, didn't speak for a long time. Sunlight on the lawnmower shell reflected a bit glaring.
"Her hair was long," Old He said again, "heard it almost touched the ground. When she hanged herself, her hair caught on the branches. Firefighters pulled her down and tore off several clumps."
I said: "So when I saw branches, I was... sawing her hair?"
Old He didn't answer. He extinguished his cigarette, stood up, pushed the lawnmower and left. Stopped after a few steps, didn't look back, said: "Just remember the rules for that tree. If it gets stuck, don't pull, change to another branch.
In early years we thought about cutting it down. When we used a big saw, something always happened. Later nobody dared to completely remove that tree, just prune it."
I watched him walk away. His back was hunched, pushing the lawnmower slowly.
For the next two weeks I didn't go prune that tree. New saw arrived, I took it, weighed it, teeth were sharp. But I put the saw in the tool room and never touched it.
It rained on the night of September 7th. Next day I went to the garden to clean up wind-broken branches. The banyan dropped leaves all over the ground, I swept slowly with a bamboo broom.
When sweeping near the trunk, the broom head hit something. I looked down—a rope. Nylon, as thick as a finger, grayish white, one end tied to a low aerial root, the other hanging on the ground. The knot was a slipknot.
I squatted to look. The rope was wet, covered in mud, but clearly not tied today. Inside the slipknot was a small tuft of black hair, tangled in the rope strands, couldn't pull it out no matter how hard I tried.
I stood up, stepped back two paces. Looked up at the banyan. Sun just up, light leaked through the leaves. Light spots on the ground were bright, wind blowing, spots swaying, looked like something slowly crawling up the tree.
I heard footsteps behind me. Turned around—it was the old lady from Unit 2 first floor, pushing her shopping cart out. She saw me standing under the tree, smiled, said young man working hard, sweeping leaves again.
I said yeah, sweeping. She pushed her cart away. After two steps she looked back: "Is that tree growing especially tall this year?" I said yeah, a bit. "Didn't notice it this tall before," the old lady looked at the canopy, "can't see the sky standing under it now."
I opened my mouth to ask something, but she'd already walked away. Cart wheels *clink clink* on the ground, getting farther.
That morning I didn't do anything else. I untied the rope and threw it in the trash. But I was careful, took a photo. The tuft of hair inside the slipknot was clear in the photo—black, thin, like just fallen from someone's head.
At lunch I went back to the dorm, sent the photo to a friend at the Folklore Research Institute. I told him about this tree. He replied with a voice message after a long time, speaking vaguely.
Basically the meaning was that for some people who die violently, if their hair remains on the object where they died, their obsession can attach to it. Cutting branches equals cutting her hair, and when you hit a joint, it reacts. He couldn't find complete details about the specific rules, just advised me to be careful.
I flipped my phone face down on the table. Wind outside, AC humming, that *scritch scritch* sound faintly from the pipes again, a bit clearer than before, like something fine dragging along the inner wall.
I stared at the ceiling. There was a fine crack along the pipe route, extending from the wall corner to next to the lamp socket. I'd never noticed that crack before.
That night Sister Chen sent me a WeChat message, said the second-floor family complained again, told me to prune that blocking branch no matter what tomorrow. I typed a line, deleted it, finally replied "received."
Next morning I didn't take the new saw. I went to the tool room and found an old saw, the one that had gotten stuck before, teeth curled, but I didn't want to use the new one.
Carried the ladder to the tree, set it up, climbed up. That branch was still there, thicker than when I last saw it. I straddled a branch, left hand holding, right hand sawing.
When the saw teeth bit into the bark, there was a *skritch* sound, sharp, like something alive let out a cry. I stopped, breathed out. Then I started sawing.
About halfway, it got stuck. Same position, same gripped feeling. I stopped, waited three seconds, gently pulled—couldn't move. I let go.
Brown stuff oozed from the saw cut on the branch, more than the previous two times, dripping down the trunk. I squatted on the branch looking down, that brown stuff flowed to near the tree root and disappeared, like absorbed by the soil.
Then I heard sound above my head. Rustling, like someone messing with my hair directly above me. I slowly looked up. The banyan's canopy was dense, leaves stacked on leaves, but I saw something swaying in that dark green mass.
Thin, black, one strand after another dropping down. More and more hair emerged from between the leaves, swaying gently, like water plants.
Those strands of hair got closer to my face. The frontmost one touched my forehead—itchy, cool. I didn't move. Or rather, I couldn't move. My hand still held the saw, but my fingers were stiff.
Those hairs wrapped around my wrist, not tight, but tightening more and more. I looked down at the wood caught in the saw—that's not wood. That's a bundle of black hair, growing from deep in the tree trunk, reaching all the way to the bark crack where my saw caught it.
I slowly pulled the saw out. The hair wrapped tighter, my wrist showed a red mark. But I had to get the saw out. Those hairs were wrapping around my neck, very light, like someone laying a strand of hair in your neck.
I remembered Old He's words—if it gets stuck, don't yank. But I had no other choice. I gritted my teeth and yanked hard.
The saw came out. With a *clatter*, a large piece of bark split open. Inside was densely packed hair—black, gray, some with white dots like dandruff—a huge mass surged out from the crack, swaying in front of my eyes.
The hairs wrapped around my hand loosened, slowly retracted into the crack. The bark closed itself, only leaving a brown mark, like a healed scar.
My legs were soft when I climbed down. I nearly missed the ladder, grabbed an aerial root to steady myself, then plopped down on the ground.
I looked up at that branch—it was still hanging on the tree intact, the saw cut was still there, but the distance I'd sawed today was exactly the same as yesterday, like I'd done nothing this morning.
I packed up my things and went back to the tool room. When washing my hands, there was a faint red mark around my right wrist—didn't hurt, but you could tell it was squeezed by something thin. I rubbed it a few times, didn't come off.
Old He waited for me at the tool room door that afternoon. When I came out, he handed me a cigarette. I said I don't smoke. He lit one for himself, sat on the steps, slowly smoked.
"Sawed?"
"Sawed."
"Stuck?"
"Stuck."
"Yanked hard?"
I didn't answer. Old He glanced at me, then flicked ash on the ground. "Your hand," he pointed at my right wrist, "go home soak in salt water." I said Master He, what's going on with that tree.
Old He finished his last puff, extinguished the cigarette butt on the step edge. He stood up, dusted his pants, said: "Something was buried under that tree. Not just hair."
"What else was buried?"
Old He walked one step, stopped. Back to me, voice low: "Bones."
"Human?"
He didn't answer.
"That woman didn't die? She was..."
Old He turned to look at me. His eyes had a look I'd never seen before—like fear, or guilt. He said: "I don't know. What I know is that tree needs to be pruned every year.
Been pruning for over a decade. Before you, Zhao did it for five years, I did seven. There were others before that."
"Why must it be pruned?"
"If not pruned, the branches will reach the first-floor windows," Old He looked away, "then that family will see someone swaying outside the window."
I stood there, wind blowing from the garden, banyan leaves' rustling sound seeping into my collar from behind, that shadow like a hand slowly closing.
"What we do is just keep that tree too close to people." Old He left, and before leaving said, "Next time bring a chainsaw."
I didn't switch to a chainsaw. Next day I continued pruning that branch, using the old saw. Stop when stuck, saw again after stopping, back and forth several times, finally cut off the section blocking the window.
When the branch fell, the cut was clean, no brown stuff at all—just ordinary white wood. But when I moved the branch I found something.
The inner side of the branch cut had rings and rings of annual growth, very fine. I counted—about forty-plus rings. But that thicker branch I saw last time only had thirty-plus rings.
Thicker ones are younger, thinner ones are older. Not normal. I squatted on the ground looking for a while. In the sunlight, there was a break mark at the outermost edge of that ring, like something sharp had cut into it. I extended my finger to touch—cold, a bit of black got on my fingertip.
I stood up, carried that branch onto the tricycle. On the way to the waste station I kept thinking—there's a bundle of hair in that tree, hair grows in the annual rings, and the rings are older than the tree itself.
That night I went back to the dorm, opened the computer, enlarged the photo of that rope and hair I'd taken.
The rope fibers were visible as brown after enlargement, soaked by rain, with some fine white particles on the surface. Inside the slipknot, at the root of that tuft of hair, there was something grayish white, a small piece, like dandruff. I stared at it for a long time, then turned off the computer.
In October the community started end-of-year cleaning. Sister Chen asked me to clear all dead branches and leaves in the garden. The banyan had accumulated a thick layer again, I swept for a whole morning.
When sweeping on the north side of the trunk, I saw a small patch of soil was loose by the tree root, like something had dug it recently. I didn't touch it.
But when the broom passed, it brought up a hint of earthy smell. Besides rotting leaves, there was a faint rust-like metallic odor. I squatted to smell it, thought it was just old tree roots rotting in the mud.
But later when I passed the garden, I couldn't help looking at that tree. Look at its aerial roots, its leaves, see if its drooping branches would block the first-floor window again.
The old lady from the first floor left at exactly three PM every day to buy groceries, pushing her cart past me. Sometimes she greeted me, sometimes not. She never looked up at that tree.
In November Old He resigned. He said his son bought a house in the provincial capital, wanted him to come help with the grandchild. Before leaving he left his toolbox to me, inside were a new set of hand saws, two pruning shears, and a bottle of oil.
He said: "Keep doing it."
I said okay.
He said: "You know the rules."
I said I know.
He lit a cigarette, took a puff, looked toward the garden. That banyan's canopy swayed gently in the wind, leaves rustling.
"Sometimes I think," Old He said, "that tree keeps growing hair. No matter how we cut it, it keeps growing.
We prune it year after year, cutting its hair. Not let it get too thick, not let it droop to the windows. But what's under the roots we can't control."
I didn't speak. Wind blew the smoke away. Old He extinguished his remaining cigarette, patted my shoulder, and left.
That night I had a dream. In the dream I was pruning that banyan, the saw got stuck, I stopped and waited three seconds.
A bundle of black hair dropped from the canopy, slowly landing on my shoulder. I looked up along the hair—a woman sat between the branches, wearing a white dress, feet swaying in the air.
She looked down at me, face half covered by hair, the eye that was visible was curved, smiling.
She looked very young, but the aura around her felt old, like cloth stored deep in a cabinet for decades, dust puffs out when opened. She said: "Thank you, always helping me trim."
I woke up. The pipe on the ceiling was dripping, *drip, drip*, rhythm uniform. I turned over, my phone screen lit up—Sister Chen's message: tomorrow prune the south side of that banyan too, the old lady on the first floor called again.
I replied "okay." Then I lay there, looking at the ceiling. The pipe made sound again. *Scritch, scritch*, so faint you could barely hear it, like something slowly scraping the inner wall with nails.
I wasn't sure that sound was coming from the pipes. I pulled the blanket to my chin, closed my eyes. Moonlight from outside leaked in, casting grid-like shadows on the floor. Wind through the banyan leaves, *rustle rustle rustle*, *rustle rustle rustle*.
That sound was above my head, also outside the window. I counted to three, then slowly opened my eyes.
From the crack in the ceiling, something was dropping down. Thin, black, one, two, three. They swayed gently under the moonlight.