I
In the village of Verity, everyone told the truth. It was the law. But in the center of the square grew a peculiar tree. Its leaves were white as paper, and its fruit tasted of sugar.
If you whispered a white lie to the tree, it grew a fruit. "Your hair looks nice." "I'm fine." "It wasn't your fault."
The villagers ate the fruit in secret. It was a sweet relief from the harsh bitterness of absolute truth.
One day, the Mayor decided to chop it down. "Deception corrupts!" he bellowed.
He raised his axe. The tree trembled. A single fruit fell. It broke open, releasing a cloud of whispers.
"I love you, but I don't like you right now." "I'm scared of dying." "I think your painting is ugly."
The truth, unfiltered by kindness, flooded the square. Friends argued. Lovers wept. The village descended into chaos. The truth was a weapon without the shield of courtesy.
The Mayor lowered his axe. He realized that a world without white lies was a world without grace.
"It stays," he grumbled. And he picked up a fruit, whispering, "I am a wise leader," before taking a bite.