A Tree of Stories begins with the image of a tree growing downwards. Its branches and leaves bend inwards, wrapping around themselves like a tent, a shell, or a temporary shelter. It is not a real house, but it carries a certain feeling of home. From this starting point, the work asks: within the condition of urban alienation, why might people still have a house, yet lose the feeling of being safe at home?

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Following the natural direction of the branches, I draw simple house-like lines onto the image. Where the branches split, they begin to suggest windows. Where the leaves open, the gaps become possible doors or entrances. In this process, the tree and the house are no longer separate forms. They grow into and overlap with one another, creating a space between nature and architecture, shelter and body, protection and exposure.

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The work is not about imagining home as something complete or absolutely secure. Instead, it asks whether home, if it can no longer be understood as a fixed physical space, might be rebuilt as a psychological presence. The tree offers a kind of protection, but it never fully closes itself off. Light, air and vision can still pass through its leaves and gaps. Its boundary is soft and permeable rather than solid.

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For me, this tree becomes a metaphor for an inner space. It cannot truly block the pressures of the outside world, but it can suggest a place to return to, to pause within, and to breathe again psychologically. In this sense, A Tree of Stories explores home not as a physical building, but as a state of mental shelter. A real sense of safety does not come from complete enclosure, but from a boundary that can be adjusted, entered, withdrawn from and reconnected through.

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Therefore, the boundary in the work is not a way of cutting the world off, but a way of rebuilding a relationship with it. It allows protection and connection to exist at the same time, and suggests that home is no longer a fixed place, but a fragile, temporary and still deeply real psychological space. Within the uncertainty and alienation of urban life, the work reflects on how nature, memory and imagination might help us create small moments of safety where we can briefly stay.

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《A Tree of Stories》以一株向下生长的树作为起点。它的枝叶向内弯曲、彼此包裹，像一顶帐篷、一个壳层，或一处临时的庇护所。它并不是一座真正的房子，却带有某种“家”的感觉。作品由此开始追问：在都市异化的语境中，为什么人可能并没有失去房子，却失去了“在家中感到安全”的能力？

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我顺着树枝自然生长的方向，在图像上绘制出简化的房屋线条。枝干分叉的地方逐渐像是窗，叶片展开后留下的缝隙则像是门或入口。在这个过程中，树与房屋不再是两个分离的形态，而是彼此生长、交叠在一起，形成一个介于自然与建筑、庇护与身体、保护与暴露之间的空间。

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这件作品并不是在想象一个完整或绝对安全的家。相反，它更关心的是：如果家不再能被理解为固定的物理空间，那么它是否可以作为一种心理性的存在被重新建构？树提供了某种保护，但它从未完全封闭自己。光、空气和视线仍然可以穿过叶片与缝隙。它的边界是柔软且可渗透的，而不是坚硬的。

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对我来说，这棵树成为一种内在空间的隐喻。它无法真正阻挡外部世界的压力，却可以在心理上暗示一个能够回返、停留和重新呼吸的地方。从这个意义上说，《A Tree of Stories》探索的不是作为物理建筑的家，而是作为精神庇护状态的家。真正的安全感并不来自完全封闭，而来自一种可调节、可渗透、可以退回也可以重新连接的边界。

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因此，作品中的边界并不是隔绝世界的方式，而是一种让人与世界重新建立关系的方式。它使保护与连接同时存在，也让“家”不再是一个确定的地点，而成为一种脆弱、临时却仍然真实的心理空间。在都市生活的不确定与疏离之中，作品思考我们如何通过自然、记忆和想象，创造出一些可以短暂停留的安全感。