In the dappled shade where light dares not tread, silent crypts of oak and ash hold the secrets of the shadowed winds. Linguists of the forest, when dusk unfurls its velvet cloak, translate the soft lament of leaves.

Murmurings of root and bark encoded in dusk's embrace, unmodulated the trees remain, yet only to those whose hearts know the language of bark and ring.

"Chant at the base of the twisted elder," whispered the winds, flecked with dew and dawn's first blush, "and the past will sap your will for tomorrow."

Do their whispers travel to your ears uninvited? Enter below, where only the brave contrive a response.