The walls, clad with moss, remember what lips forget. They whisper in a language all your own.
Can you hear it?
Footsteps mimic your breath, and there is a truth in the echoes
that sing of past avatars, leaves turning, shadows cast.
Listen closely.
We are the gardens of chatter left unwatered, dew collected from
sighs, soft petals holding the weight of every unshared thought.
In the heart of silence, a flower blooms—its name is never spoken.
Venture further into its untamed whispers.
Or trace your steps to the sanctuary where words linger like yesterday's rain.