In the silent corridors of the soil, where light dares not step, lies an untold story. This story, carved in inches and centuries, speaks of roots that clutch the dying breath of moisture, of fungi whispering to the decay.
There is no beauty in the underground. No fairy tale forest or romantic notion. Just the ugliest truth. Growths that push upwards from the depths of their own darkness, seeking whatever sustenance they can claim.
The earth holds on tightly, not letting go, not giving up. Every skein of root, every minuscule mycelium thread, works under the weight of ancient soils. These growths know no gentility. They are puppets of gravity and age.