Inflection, reflection, inflection — the winds spoke in circles over the hills.
The sun, dipped in lavender mist, shyly tucked itself behind climbing peaks. It breathes ancients sighs, rhythmic, as if it practiced the mantras of lost gods.
Twists and turns, twists and turns— the whispers circulated beneath the old trees, every leaf a messenger. Shadows danced, forming labyrinthine paths across the tired earth's surface.
And there was a presence — neither form nor void, but the space in-between filled with intriguing warmth, drawing nearer with every passing moment.
Echoes, echoes — they decoded the language of swaying grasses, where stories glassy-touched fermented beneath the blades’ secretive dances.
Ultimately, inevitably — the touch of ethereal fingers sending electric shudders down the spine of nature, coaxing out the colors of forgotten dreams.
Follow the whispers into the reeds... Answer the call of the light...