The ancient logs whispered secrets to the wind, tales woven into the barks' aroma, an encrypted epistle unknowable to the untrained heart. Once, in a forest as old as time itself, a being of chlorophyll sang songs only spoken in the rustling of leaves.
Branches extended like hands, crafting languages found in the tender sway of the canopy. Cryptic messages, forged in cross-sections, spoke of epochs lost to the ringed husks, recounting wars against the lapse of autumn.
In the underbrush, a path of strung roots lay promising a forgotten realm housing dreams of sap, ciphers sealed with soft bark kisses. The wind, a gentle archivist, narrated the unspoken prose of arboreal tongues.