Mr. Red Leaf had a story to tell, and no one to hear it. He was a single red leaf, bright as a coal, clinging to a low branch. Every morning he called his tale to the forest. He told how the spring rain first uncurled him. He told how the summer sun baked him green, then turned him red. He wanted to tell it again and again, until every creature in the woods knew his whole life. But the birds flew past. The squirrels never slowed. His words drifted into empty air and fell to the ground. The trouble was simple. No one had a reason to stop and sit. There was no place to gather beneath his branch. So Mr. Red Leaf let go. He drifted down on the breeze. He landed on a wide dirt path and waited for wind to carry him somewhere better. A gust lifted him again. It rolled him over roots and past mushrooms and dropped him at the foot of an old oak. This oak was different. Its trunk was hollow and huge. Someone had carved a doorway into the wood, framed with smooth wooden pillars. A curved stage jutted out from the base. Above the door hung a painted sign. Mr. Red Leaf could not read it, but he could see the shape of the place. It was a theater, grown right inside the tree. He understood at once. This was a spot built for listening. Rows of small seats waited in the warm wooden dark. The stage caught the light and held it. Mr. Red Leaf skittered across the boards to the center of the stage. He faced the empty rows and began his tale. He told of the rain. He told of the sun. He told of the day he turned red. His voice bounced off the curved walls and came back louder. That was the difference. In the theater, a small voice carried far. A beetle passing outside heard the sound and stepped through the doorway. A pair of moths followed. Two mice crept in and took a seat near the front. They did not fly past. They stayed. They watched the little red leaf on the stage and they listened. Mr. Red Leaf finished, and the small crowd tapped their feet against the wood. He had found it at last. A quiet place where creatures gathered to sit and hear him. But when he looked out at the rows, he saw only six listeners in a hall built for hundreds. The empty seats stretched back into the dark. Six creatures knew his story now. He wanted the whole forest to know it. One telling in one theater was not nearly enough. He would have to fill every seat, and then find a way to bring his tale to ears far beyond this tree.