“Who speaks to the silence but finds the silence listens?” Embedded within the oak's gnarled branches, the timeless question grows, answers nurtured by forgotten winds.
In every rustle of the leaves, there lies a mirage of conversations never held. The ancient oak knew the name of the moon's shadow long before mankind dreamed of silver paths.
What truth lies in the words unheard? Perhaps time is but an illusion, a weaving of tales around a central void, stitched by the delicate hands of dust and eternity.
A breath from the branches beckons: Follow the footfalls of whispers across the sylvan paths where light dances with long-forgotten echoes.