In olden times, when the streets of Prague were still paved with stones that remembered the footsteps of kings and beggars, and when a haze of mystery and ancient legends hung over the rooftops, a peculiar building stood on the corner of Konviktská Street, not far from the venerable and ancient Rotunda of the Holy Cross. It was a time when, in the twilight of evenings, whispers circulated about hidden treasures, miracles, and the punishments that befell those who dared to break the ancient laws of the land. On Konviktská Street, which then pulsed with the life of artisans and small merchants, where the scent of spices from distant lands mingled with the aroma of freshly baked bread and damp stone, stood a house whose history is intertwined with one such mystery.

That house on the corner, opposite the chapel, once belonged to a wealthy, yet somewhat ruthless man. His name has long been forgotten, but his deed remained in people’s memory. This man, who indulged in comfort and ostentation, desired to expand his dwelling. His house, although not small, seemed insufficient to him for his growing wealth and social standing. The expansion plans were grand, but one single obstacle stood in his way: an old, bushy tree that had towered in the garden behind the house for many generations. It was a tree to which the locals held deep reverence, considering it sacred, a guardian of ancient spirits and a silent witness to many centuries. Its roots intertwined deep beneath the earth, its branches spread like an embrace, and in its crown, birds nested, singing their morning songs there for decades.

The man, blinded by the vision of a larger and more opulent dwelling, however, paid no heed to the warnings of his neighbors nor to the quiet reverence the locals held for it. To him, it was just an old piece of wood, obstructing his ambitions. One cold autumn morning, when the fog still clung low over the rooftops and the bells of the Rotunda of the Holy Cross had barely faded after morning prayers, the man took a saw in his hand. With firm resolve, but with a strange, oppressive feeling in his chest, he stepped into the garden. The air was heavy and silent, not even a breeze stirred, as if all of Prague held its breath. The man approached the tree, whose trunk was rough and wrinkled like an old man’s face, and with the first decisive stroke of the saw, a crack resounded.

At that moment, something happened that would compel even the greatest skeptic to believe in the extraordinary. From the wound that the saw