In a forgotten grove of ancient oaks and whispering willows, a language flows through the underbrush, spoken in rustles and creaks. To the untrained ear, it's a symphony of the mundane. To those who listen closely, it is a storied tongue, woven from the sinews of bark and leaf.
There, amidst the shadows and sunlight, the dreams of the forest lie archived, secrets woven into the very structure of nature. A tree's whisper is an echo of memory, a slow passage through time's labyrinth.
One tree, older than time itself, spoke of a world long gone. Its arms, heavy with age, sheltered stories of winds carved into its trunk, a map of forgotten places.
Listen to the echoes of the forest