Chronicles of the Ephemeral Dance

In the hollows of the forest, where the wind whispers forgotten secrets, the dance was known to all but seen by none. Leaves rustled as if clapping for unseen performers, and the moon cast a spotlight on figures distorted by mist.

These were the lost chapters of a story unwritten, recollections of waltzes long abandoned under ancient oaks. Some say the trees themselves join in the twirl, their branches gracefully sweeping the air.

There was a young girl, now grown, who spoke to the forest as friends speak to one another in familiar tones. She'd string together words that hung like dew on morning grass, threads in a grand tapestry unknown to her.

She often wondered what tales her grandmother had once whispered during the long winter nights, those stories that flickered like the hearth fire, never quite catching hold but always comforting.

Bodies were never seen. Only the afterthoughts remained: an imprint on grass, a broken twig, the echo of a laughter lingering in the cool evening air.

This chapter remains unfinished, penned by an invisible hand. Words were perhaps never meant to be written, only felt in the heart's quietest recesses.