Indiscernible whispers from somewhere below say: "In every rooted thing, a story, untold, sleeps." Hidden voices carried on wind tendrils speak in forgotten tongues, hinting treasures buried deep.
Pulsing with a hum only understood over measured silences. They wait, hearts entwined with vines. Are there passages lost, or mirrors angled wrong? Eyes unopened touch telepathically the petal's edge.
Does the soil hide your name too? Let it echo through branches that ache for light. See the paths pull aside and unveil their dormant dreams.