I went out into the yard to get some fresh air and water the plants. Everything was so peaceful — the sound of birds, the scent of damp soil, the first rays of sunlight 🌞. But as I walked toward the old tree in the corner of the yard, I froze in place. Hanging from its branches were dozens of yellowish-orange spheres, uneven and oddly shaped. They looked like tiny oranges, but something about them just wasn’t right. 😨
At first, I thought maybe some kids had been playing and stuck something there. Then I assumed it might be an insect nest or some kind of disease. But when I touched one of them, it was soft, slightly moist, and suddenly the air filled with a sweet yet rotten smell 🤢.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with a logical explanation. I grabbed my phone and frantically started searching online. A few minutes later, I was just sitting there, frozen, eyes wide open. I had found dozens of yellowish-orange spheres in the yard, oddly shaped and uneven — and I was in shock when I realized what they were. 🫣🫣
When I think back to that morning, chills still run down my spine 😨. Everything began so peacefully — the quiet song of birds, a light mist over the garden, and damp grass under my feet. I went outside to water the plants, completely unaware that this day would change not only my view of the garden but of myself.
I stopped near the old tree 🌳. It had always been my favorite — a silent witness to my childhood games, long talks with my mom, and spring photos full of sunlight. But that day, it looked… different. Hanging from its branches were dozens of yellowish-orange balls. They looked almost alive, as if they were breathing.
At first, I laughed it off 😅 — maybe the neighbor’s kids had glued some kind of toys to the branches? But as I looked closer, I realized they had grown into the bark. One of them even trembled slightly in the breeze. Curiosity got the better of me, and I reached out. The surface was soft, slightly moist, and when I pressed gently, a sweet, rotten smell escaped from within.
I jerked my hand back 🤢. The odor was so disgusting it made me gag. But something in me — maybe that same curiosity that always got me into trouble — made me stay. I took a few pictures and ran inside to my laptop.
The first few searches showed nothing. Then, after I described the texture and color more precisely, one word appeared on the screen — Cyttaria 🍊. I clicked on the image and froze. The same orange spheres, attached to trees — but they were found in South America. How could that be here, in my own yard?
I read on, my heart sinking 😰. These were parasitic fungi that infect trees from the Nothofagus family. They grow inside the wood, forcing the tree to form strange swellings, from which the orange fruiting bodies eventually burst through. Slowly but surely, the fungus drains the life out of the tree.
Panic crept in. That tree was like part of my family. I called my friend Victor — a botanist who, I believed, knew everything about plants. He agreed to come by that evening.
Before he arrived, I kept walking around the tree 🌬️. At times I thought the orange spheres were pulsing, faintly glowing in the filtered sunlight. The tree seemed to breathe unevenly, as if in pain.
When Victor finally arrived, I was trembling. He inspected the branches, sighed, and said quietly:
— Yes, it’s Cyttaria. If you don’t cut away the infected parts, the tree won’t survive.
We worked in silence 💔. Every branch we cut felt like a wound. On one of the cuts, I noticed the fungus had reached deep inside. Victor frowned.
— Maybe we’re in time, — he murmured. — But I’m not sure.
After he left, I stayed near the roots as the sun went down. The light turned everything orange — the same shade as the spheres. I ran my fingers over the bark. It was warm. Too warm.
That night, I couldn’t sleep 🌙. Strange noises came from the garden — scratching, whispering, like someone moving among the leaves. I told myself it was the wind. But the next morning, I froze: on the ground lay new orange balls. They had fallen off and rolled toward the roots.
Then I saw something else. Thin yellowish threads spread out from the soil, winding toward my vegetable patch 🍅.
I knelt down — the threads were moving. Slowly, like worms, they stretched through the soil, connecting with other plants. My heart raced. I grabbed a shovel and tried to dig them out, but the earth was dense. Beneath the surface was a sticky, fibrous mass — like a living web.
When the shovel tore through it, that same sickly-sweet smell filled the air. From the cut oozed a thick, amber fluid. Inside it… something squirmed 🪱.
I ran back into the house, slamming the door. I tried calling Victor, but his number was suddenly unavailable.
Three days passed. I didn’t go outside. But when I finally dared to look, the tree was bare — blackened, lifeless. And yet the garden around it was bursting with new growth 🌼. Lush, bright, too alive.
Only one thing was wrong: each flower glistened with tiny orange dots.
I leaned closer — and smelled that same scent.
Since that day, I’ve stopped watering the plants. They don’t need me anymore. They grow on their own — fast, wild. And sometimes, late at night, I hear a soft rustling at my window, a whisper that says:
— Don’t be afraid… it’s just Cyttaria. We’re one now 🌕.
