In the heart of the forest, where light seldom dances and time bows to ancient trees, whispers float like autumn leaves.
Once, a wanderer stumbled upon a grove untouched by the march of ages. It was here that the trees spoke in a language all their own, a dialect of rustling leaves and creaking branches.
The traveler heard her name: Elowen—rooted in the soil of the past, a sylvan guardian woven into the fabric of memory.
She pressed her palm against the bark, and the forest unfolded its story, revealing fleeting glimpses of forgotten centuries:
Time travelled like a river, carrying the echoes of long-lost voices. The air shimmered with images of gatherings long past. Tapestries woven with moonlight and shadows of those who wandered here before.
Elowen's voice, a whisper like the sigh of the earth: "To walk among the trees is to stroll through the corridors of time, where every whisper holds a thousand stories."