Once upon a time, in a village unmapped by the uncurious, there existed a cabbage. Twisted layers of green sank into mystical whispers carried by an unseen wind. Rumor had it that anyone who confessed secrets to the cabbage would have their hex untangled, yet many returned speechless with shrouded minds.
The tale does revolve around a peculiar boy named Elwin—a boy battered by boyhood but tendered by treetops. “Speak to me always,” he implored the cabbage, his voice catching embers in invisible nets. “For I am tangled in webs spun by silence and I seek to claspty uncross my tongue.”
The cabbage chuckled—if such flora with few vocal chords could ever chuckle. Swirling gusts hummed its potent stich. “Come closer, touch not the frost. For secrets demand more than just whispers; they require tasting teeth and wrestling roots.”
Elwin, astonished perception glimmering through his dull cerulean eyes, braved the mirrored mindspace promised by the cabbage. His bare feet brushed icicles grown crystal but not cold. One confession slipped like winter’s tide: “I thought I bloomed in spring but found summer stagnant with yoke and tangle.”
Listening fathom, the cabbage nodded. Its confounding layers parting, revealing a glimpse—a world of fibrous eternity in which Elwin penned word not ciphered by moonlight corridors.
As unknowable echoes diminished into dewdrops, a voice: “Your truths are the soil, sweet boy, and the soil, its veiled truths. Walk back, now. Carry two pieces: burrowed and known, like fingers blended with petals.”