Whispers from Elmwood

Quiet tapestry unfurls in the warp, teams of silence stitching around the corners, its breath—not born. Revelations buried beneath endless strings; phantoms weave words like dust, lingering in twilight glow.

When the moon falters, cries of dreams in reverse quenched memories reverberate. And so they circle, ethereal surrogates of absence cradling the benign hollow—a chorus only the oak will hear.

In the corridors of the eternal sigh, resides the light's forbidden ash. Flickering intermittently; its pulse unfolds the language old as time—a forgotten tongue written in crimson stars unseen.