A foreign melancholy clings to the air, just as a heavy darkness shrouds the vicinity. I can almost tangibly feel smoke begin to envelop my lungs. Once I reach the tree, I stop. The branches effuse a solemn history, a knowledge of the past. How could a tree, a piece of wood, have survived while so many people died? It stood firm through the deafening crack of the bomb and the shrieks of utter terror. Instantaneously sound ceases, and time refuses to go on. The longer time lingers, the more intense the shivers of death ripple up my spine and radiate onto my skin. I could be gone in an instant amidst the flashes of a violent explosion, just like the people years ago, in this very place. A disconcerting notion, yes, but the appreciation for life wells in the hearts of every single visitor gazing at the tree’s billowing branches. Death has not selfishly taken their lives yet, but soon it will, like the timer on a bomb ticking towards an inevitable horror. The history and the aura both aid in my understanding of the key lesson I am learning here: life is too short to continue wasting your time, so do not waste a single second. One second can be the difference between happiness and despair, and life and death.