In the heart of the ancient woods where sunlight dared not tread, the echoes sang of forgotten tales. A gnarled tree stood sentinel, its knotted branches reaching skyward as if pleading for a long-lost embrace. Underneath, a carpet of emerald moss whispered secrets to those who dared to listen.
"Did you hear the bell toll for the rabbit, Agatha? It rings three times, just like the legends..."
Beneath the tangled canopy, time flowed differently. A brook babbled in languages known only to faeries, each ripple a note in nature’s symphony. Here, the moon hung close, a silver watchman in the daytime sky. The air was heavy with stories unspoken, and the soft rustle of leaves invited the brave to wander deeper.
Many have entered, few have returned—those who did spoke of visions and voices, of shadowy figures dancing just out of sight, their laughter like wind chimes in a tempest.