Shadows beneath brittle canopies tangled with leaves aged by half a hundred autumns, where the sun forgets its touch, murmurs seeping into pores like a slow-intoxicating draught of elderflower and rain-mixed earth.
Have you heard them, the tremors of sylvan confessions whispered by branches veiling the moon's unwilling glow? Echoes never belonging to the mouths known, appeals birthed from mist-cradled trunks and storied roots crisscross like lines of destiny in scriptless moss.
Footfalls stagger on sinuous pathways, where if you pause, you become more than a visitor. Resist the invitation of where the light plays hide-and-seek, for sylvan spirits composed of shadows and serene glare unveil truths inked into the quietude of arboreal dominions.
Cohorts with faltering whispers, ancient litanies recited by voices wearing winged silence. Every breath draws from an existence older than whispers, all tending to an unseen fire immune to the attempts of sleep, singing unwritten serenades.
Further into the Echo