"I dreamt of the color of silence last night," murmured the fern, swaying lightly in the breeze.

"And what hue is that?" asked the moonbeam, casting a gentle touch upon the dew-laden petals.

"A secret shade between emerald and void," replied the fern, its fronds curling as if to embrace the sound of its own thoughts.

"Perhaps time is but a lingering whisper through the pines," suggested the breeze, carrying secrets of worlds unseen.

"We exist in moments rather than minutes," the moonbeam replied, tracing paths along the canopy's edge.