Sunday, October 12, 2025 — 8:30 a.m.
The Brooklyn brownstone was just warming up. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, slicing the pale gray carpet into golden stripes. I stepped out barefoot, holding a steaming cranberry scone. The plate almost grazed the doorframe—and the sweet, tangy scent bounced playfully into the living room.

In the corner, a 1.8-meter-tall fiddle-leaf fig stood still, casting a leafy silhouette against the white brick wall. I walked over and brushed my fingertips across a leaf—cool to the touch, veins clear, edges curled like a freshly sprouted shoot.

The living room isn’t big. A brass pendant lamp hung from the high ceiling, a few glass beads catching the morning light with a soft chime. A pale gray linen sofa lined the wall, a caramel knit throw draped casually over one arm. Across from it, an old wooden TV console held a record player spinning Norah Jones, the needle clicking now and then.

The fig tree stood between the sofa and the console. Its deep brown ceramic planter, trimmed with a scalloped rim, matched the floor perfectly. The main stem leaned slightly to the right, as if nudged by last night’s breeze through the window crack. The leaves grew smaller toward the top, the newest ones still curled, not yet unfurled.

My husband always teases, “So you’re not a plant killer anymore?”
In the past three years, I’ve said goodbye to three real fiddle-leaf figs—root rot, yellowing, and total leaf loss. But this one never complains about watering or heating. It always looks proud and pristine.

The doorbell rang. Anna stepped in with a brown paper bag. Her trench coat was ginger-colored—she looked like a piece of autumn itself. While taking off her shoes, her eyes landed on the green corner.

“Wow—thriving, huh?”

She reached out to measure a leaf, then leaned in to sniff. Her fingers paused. “Wait… this leaf is stiff?”

I handed her a hot apple cider.
“It’s fake.”

The sun was just then filtering through the leaves. The veins looked like soft watercolor lines. Anna circled the pot, tapped the curled leaf at the top. “The texture’s unreal. Even the little fuzz underneath is there.”

“Even a florist once thought it was real,” I grinned.
The planter was topped with moss and pebbles—it really did look like soil.

“So it never drops a leaf?”

“Not once in three months.” I lifted a leaf that dangled near the sofa. “Mark spilled coffee in the pot last time. One wipe and it was spotless.”

Anna clapped her hands. “I need one for the study.” Then dialed someone.
“Lily’s fiddle-leaf fig is fake, but way better-looking—no watering needed.” She winked at me after hanging up. “Send me the link.”

After she left, the living room went quiet again. I curled up on the couch, flipping through old photos. Just last winter, this corner was empty. Now with this splash of green, the room felt like someone was gently breathing.

By afternoon, light crept up to the tips of the leaves. I moved the couch half a foot to let the sun soak in. Near the base, the green was almost inky; the mid-section, lighter; and at the top, the young leaves glowed yellow-green. Some leaves reached upward, others stretched sideways, one nearly touched the floor lamp. No wonder Anna was fooled.

At sunset, the sky turned tangerine. I sat cross-legged on the carpet with tea, watching the leaf shadows dance on the wall—just like the old tree in my grandmother’s yard when I was little.

Late at night, coming home from work, I saw moonlight resting on the leaves, giving them a silver sheen. This faux tree still stood tall—no fallen leaves, no guilt, no apologies needed.

On weekends, I love bringing breakfast out to the balcony, watching sunlight climb up the foliage. Sometimes I take a soft cloth and wipe the leaves—not because they’re dirty, but because I crave the feel of those veins.
My husband teases, “You baby a fake tree too?”
But every time I see it, I think of the promise I made when we moved in: the living room must have something evergreen.

Before dinner, I glance into the room from the kitchen. The neighbor’s real fiddle-leaf fig has dropped a pile of leaves. Ours? Still standing like midsummer.

I think to myself: I’ll wrap it in string lights for Christmas. Maybe stick a few silk hydrangeas in the pot next summer. And one day, if we have a child, I’ll tell them—this is a tree that never grows up, and never cries.

Late at night, the floor lamp glows amber. The tree’s shadow stretches long across the wall.
I walk over with a glass of water, flick the curled top leaf gently.

“Good night. See you in the morning.”