[ WP ] everybody on Earth has a tree that represents them . Once that tree dies , that person dies too . You work as a lumberjack .

The pine stood at the forefront of the hilltop grove, proud and unyielding even in the wind. Squirrels scampered across its branches, and nuthatches hopped up and down its trunk. It bustled with activity, teeming with life yet lived, but its trunk had been marked with a red X, and that meant Maurice had to cut it down. 
 
 He kicked the base of the tree, a warning sign that went mostly unheeded. They had their chance, Maurice thought, and he lifted his axe and swung. Shards of bark split from the wound, dissipating in tiny clouds. With each swing, the cut grew deeper, and Maurice's arms grew heavier. He winced as the wind buffeted him with shrapnel. Nature was resisting him in every way possible, but their efforts were futile; all Maurice needed was time. 
 
 The tenth swing was when Maurice heard the scream. The axe fell from his hands, and he whirled around, scanning the expanse for a person. His ears perked up as something rustled in the branches above, but it was nothing, just a bird or a squirrel. Maurice slumped against the tree, wiping his brow with his sleeve. His breathing returned to normal. The wind howled. Nobody else was there. 
 
 Maurice picked up his axe and swung again. And again. And on the third swing, he heard it once more. The wail assailed his ears with wordless grief. The purity of its agony drowned its tone completely; it could have come from man, woman, or child. The hairs on Maurice's back prickled as he turned around to see the nothing he expected he would find. Someone had been here, though. The presence died as the scream did, but its aftermath lingered with the echo. 
 
 He had heard stories, rumors, myths; the profession was inundated with them. Some were outlandish: trees animating, possessed by their victims, and falling unexpectedly, crushing unsuspecting lumberjacks. Some were urban legends: bands of assassins forming to protect the trees of their own number. Many, however, were born on the edge between the real and the supernatural and sustained by the anxieties that plagued practitioners of his trade. Such stories told of victims awakening in the middle of the night, buckling in pain as invisible axes cleaved into their stomachs, their skin flecks from wounds only they could see. Their spirits would flee their bodies, burrowing through the earth in search for their lifelong partner. And on arrival, they would scream and flail and do anything to catch the attention of the lumberjack performing their execution, but to no avail. In their death throes, only one or two notes would ever make it into sound. 
 
 Such were the screams that pervaded lumberjack lore, the screams that Maurice believed he was now hearing. He closed his eyes and let the wind whip the sweat off his cheeks. Hallucination or not, it did n't matter; it was only a tree and its person. Regardless of spirits and screams, both were meant to die today. He kicked the dirt between the roots, then clenched his teeth and raised his axe once more. 
 
 Two more swings, and the screaming resumed, resonating in his ears, coursing through his blood. As he made his way through the trunk, the screams grew louder and louder until agony was roaring all throughout his entire body. Maurice found himself screaming along with the victim, simultaneously partaking in and administering their pain. He yearned to stay alive, to remain with friends and family he did n't even know, but each strike of the axe sent pangs of helplessness reverberating through his body. The weight of a life cut short fled through the gash widening in his stomach. 
 
 The screaming died without warning, and the change sent Maurice off-kilter. He swung and struck empty air, stumbling forward. He shook himself from his trance: he could no longer sense the presence, and there was only a shred of bark left to cut through. Maurice gathered himself, swallowed, and made the swing. 
 
 The tree creaked and began to fall away. Maurice dropped his axe and sighed. The screams began to dissipate from his memory; they seemed so out-of-place now, so unreal, and he began to wonder if he had imagined the entire ordeal. Surely, he thought, there was a plausible explanation, a psychological reason. The myths were just that: myths. 
 
 He was too embroiled in his thoughts to notice the tree alter its course and begin to fall on top of him.
