Beneath the heart of the forest, a thread of sound breathed between the trees—an insistence, a call. It whispered stories of rain-dropped mornings and glowing paths through tangled roots. Fragmented voices called, weaving together like the seam of an unseen quilt patch.
"... we used to believe it could guide us." echoed the voice in fading daylight, swept beneath the gentle rustle of ancient leaves.
Shadows clasped hands with light, those tentative waltzes rendering silence a symphony. Do you remember when stepping stones sang? Or perhaps that was only a half-remembered dream. Stillness holds its secrets closely.
Echoing murmurings emerged from cracks in reality, fissures of time not entirely healed. Caught between worlds, a wispy silhouette danced—a specter of bygone laughter, swirling with the cadence of forgotten healing songs.
“Tales of glasswing butterflies...” the fabric of sound seemed to twine around these old, cryptic words, wrapping them in silk before sending them adrift.
Somewhere amid cellophane skies and seen-but-not-seen faces, lies a truth: words like wilted petals whisper on. If you listen carefully, they promise to reveal paths unwalked, to reshape memories in the image of starlit veins.
Whispering Woods Fading Images Echoing Thoughts