In the tapestry of a twilight forest, the whispers of leaves tell a tale not unlike the servant of stars. Lines of bark coded in the light of a fading sun.
Memory rises as roots break the surface, searching. Silence is a language of the sap, kept beneath the skin in spirals—mapping where the sky meets the untangled earth.
Listen closely, for every crack and creak sings a stanza of ancient lore, stitched into fibers hidden from the untrained eye. The brightest stars are those that never enter gaze yet whose shadowi descend the bough.
Mock Sunrise Patterns of Frost