From the Root Memory: What the Forest Knows of Jesters

I have stood three hundred winters and watched saplings become elders while human empires rose and fell like seasons. They type me Jester—Spark, they say—and I laugh... for the forest has always known laughter. A riddle for you, young ones: What grows slower than oak, yet outlasts stone? What is the patient mathematics of the root? The Jester knows—life persists through play, through adaptation, through the spark that finds cracks in concrete. Tell me—what do you tend in your own soil that no one else can see?