Once upon a time, there was a kingdom with no king.
The old stories said it belonged to one people.
Older stories said another.
The oldest stories belonged to the olive trees, but nobody asked them.

So the kings did what kings have always done.
They drew lines.
They planted flags.
They sent the people's children to die for them.

Years passed.

Villages became ruins.
Ruins became more ruins.

One people carried keys to homes that no longer stood. Another only memories of homes they had lost.

Both carried grief.

Only one watched its home become smaller.
Families were told to leave for somewhere safe.

Safety never came.

Eventually, there was nowhere left to go except into memory.

One sunny day, the oldest olive tree laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

Because the kings were still arguing over ownership.

It had watched men arrive with crowns, leave in coffins, and disappear beneath the very soil they claimed.

The earth never recognized a border.

She simply accepted the bodies without taking sides.

In the end, the kingdom belonged to no man.

Only the earth.

She was just lending it to all of them.