The story takes place in a barren, grey land located at the far end of town. It is the land where Grickle-grass grows, and the wind smells sour. It’s a land stripped of colour, with no trees, no shade, and no singing birds. A sad little shack sits in the middle of it, where the wind whistles through broken boards. People don’t go there anymore—not unless they’re looking for answers.

And so it begins, as many things do, with a question.

“What happened here?” a curious child might ask, standing near the ruins of a world that once was. It’s then that the Once-ler speaks, his voice scratchy like the wind. “Come close, child. I’ll tell you. But it isn’t a happy story.”

He leans out of the window, long fingers pointing to nothing but stumps in the ground. “It all started back when the world was green and good—when the Truffula Trees swayed in the breeze.”

Once upon a time, the Truffula Trees filled the land as far as the eye could see. They were glorious trees, with tufts like silk and colours that swirled—yellow, pink, and soft, dreamy orange. The air was sweet; the streams ran clear; and creatures thrived. Swomee-Swans sang in the treetops, Humming-Fish splashed in the ponds, and beneath the shades of the Truffula trees, the Brown Bar-ba-loots used to play.

The Once-ler arrived in this paradise as a young, ambitious man, with a wagon full of tools and an eye for opportunity. “This place,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “is perfect for business!”

He looked at the Truffula Trees and saw more than beauty; he saw profit. “I’ll make Thneeds!” he declared, holding up a bizarre, multi-purpose product that no one truly needed—yet everyone, he insisted, would want.

And so, the first Truffula Tree fell.

When the sound of the axe spread like an echo, he appeared. Who, you may ask – the Lorax.

He was a small orange-coloured creature with a broad moustache. His eyes were wise, glaring at the Once-ler from across the stump. He was the one who stood up and spoke for the trees because the trees couldn’t do it for themselves. And his voice was one filled with a quiet, urgent power.

“Sir, I speak for the trees you keep chopping. They are really precious as they purify the air, feed the animals, and add beauty to the world,” the Lorax said. “What right have you to take what isn’t yours to take?”

But the Once-ler laughed, dismissing the Lorax as a silly little creature. “There’s plenty of Truffula Trees! One tree doesn’t matter, my dear Lorax. Besides, business is business. A Thneed is a fine thing, a thing that all people will buy!”

And so he began to make more.

The Once-ler’s factory grew. His machines chopped, hacked, and thwacked day and night. Trees fell like dominoes, one after another. More Thneeds were made, and more money filled his pockets.

But as the factory grew, the land began to change; the Brown Bar-ba-loots, who were seen playing and feeding on the Truffula fruit, could no longer find food. And so the Lorax appeared again, his moustache drooping with sadness.

“Once-ler,” he said, his voice quiet now, “look at what you’re doing. The Bar-ba-loots are hungry, and there’s no more fruit for them to eat.”

“They’ll find somewhere else to go,” the Once-ler grumbled, turning back to his machines.

And so, the Bar-ba-loots marched away, their little feet shuffling in the dust, their heads hanging low.

Still, the chopping continued.

The air began to fill with smog, thick and heavy, blocking out the sun. The Swomee-Swans, their voices choked by the foul air, could no longer sing. The Lorax appeared once more, standing in the shadows of the factory.

“Once-ler,” he said, “the Swomee-Swans must leave, for they can’t breathe in this air you’ve made.”

“They’ll find somewhere else to sing,” muttered the Once-ler, brushing him off.

And so the Swomee-Swans flapped their wings, rising up into the sky, flying far away.

But still, the chopping continued.

The ponds turned dark and oily, the Humming-Fish no longer able to swim in the sludge. One last time, the Lorax appeared before the Once-ler. He stood on a stump, surrounded by the ruin of what had once been a thriving paradise.

“Once-ler,” he said softly, almost pleading now, “can’t you see what you’ve done? The Humming-Fish are leaving. They can’t live in the water you’ve poisoned. Soon, there will be nothing left.”

“They’ll find another pond,” the Once-ler snapped, though a flicker of doubt passed through his eyes.

But there were no other ponds. No other trees. No other homes.

And then it happened—the very last Truffula Tree fell, and with it, the land fell silent. The factory stopped. The machines grew still. And the Lorax looked at the Once-ler one last time before he floated away, lifting himself by the seat of his pants, leaving behind a single word carved into the stump of the final tree.

“UNLESS.”

The Once-ler tells the child this story now, his voice heavy with the weight of his own choices. “That word,” he says, pointing to the stump, “is the heart of it all. The Lorax left me that message, and for years, I didn’t understand it. But now I do.”

“Unless somebody like you cares deeply,

Nothing will ever get better.”

The Once-ler then goes on to reach into his pocket and pull out something really small and fragile: a Truffula seed, the last of its kind. He holds it out to the child, his eyes soft with hope.

“Plant it,” he says. “And when you do, take great care of it. Give it fresh and clean water, pure air, and time to grow. Grow a forest. Protect it. Because you are the future, and you can make things right again.”

The wind sighs through the barren land as the child takes the seed. In that moment, the grey world doesn’t feel quite so hopeless anymore.

And as the child walks away, holding the tiny seed close, there is a whisper of something on the breeze—a promise, perhaps.

For where there is care, there is hope. And where there is hope, the trees might yet return, swaying once more in the breeze.