From the heart of the moss-laden paths, an epistle, once fair, unravels. It whispers secrets of corroding gardens where roses speak in languid tones of fading light.
A rustling letter murmurs, "Oh gentle wind, carry me to the forgotten corners of your breath," it begs. Here, messages decay like forgotten seed tales, burying themselves among the sprawling weeds.
The ink, once vivid, now bleeds into silence, drawing shape-shifting shadows upon the parchment. It dreams of eternal embrace—a cycle unbroken, of whispers woven into the fabric of soil.
Violet petals fall, and with them, the murmur of yesterdays. Heed their call
The sun dips below the horizon like a tower of molten shadows, casting long tales upon earth's visage.