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The tree was old, in the sense of the turn of seasons (whatever that means in such a place), so much older than the not-lightning that came to it from outside. Once there was more, a little world, other trees, all forever wreathed in a web of lightning, with little sparks dancing about them. But the storm waned, and with it the world. Bits broke off. The world got smaller. The trees quieted to save their strength and grasped tight at the crumbling soil with their roots. Less and less there were, every age, until only one tree remained, this tree. It felt nothingness close in, a forever dream of the storms that once were. Then the not-lightning came. It flew like the sparks did, and exhaled like the storm, but was not spark or tree. It drew forth a shining light from what was left of the soil, and the storm rekindled. It was small now, just like the world, but tireless. The not-lightning nested, going forth and returning, until it did not. The lightning tree was again alone. The reprieve seemed to last. The soil held, the tiny storm crackled, the nothing surrounding did not press tight. The tree remembered and waited through time. It sheltered the shining light and was sheltered in turn. The latest not-lightning to come was almost beneath its weary notice. They poked and prodded the shining light, but their presence was a fractional moment here in the ages the lightning tree persisted. With their coming, however, the shining light was suddenly shuttered. The tree felt the storm wane again, quickly. The soil dribbled away so fast to be swallowed by the infinite gulf around it. Oblivion came for the lightning tree. At last it dreamed of those long-gone storms. As dreams do, it stretched forever. This is the memory of lightning.