In shadows deeper than dreams or desire, a vine whispers tales to the sleeping moss.
Entwined in root, in spectral whisper: the garden holds secrets of the night—whispers know not time.
The bell tolls, though no one hears, in ivy's clutch—they cling, the silent riders, unspeaking forever.
A symbiotic serenade, rooted deep; watch the wraiths glide, soft veils brushing sorrow's chill.