Through the mist, the spirits sing, a loop of forgotten hymns...
In the heart of the forest, beneath the ancient oaks, an echo dances.
It is not the sound of a voice, but a spiral of voices, woven into the winds.
Lyrical and lost, they call to none, yet all who wander here.
She who hears them oftentimes, she who steps lightly upon dew-kissed leaves,
becomes the echo's favorite, a partner in the invisible waltz.
Their dance is a circle, broader than time, tighter than a secret.
"Speak, dancer," the woods intone, "Breathe the words into our waiting silence."