In the garden of sounds left unheard, where the wind whispers tales of the unsaid, roots burrow deep into the shadows. Beneath the surface, where light fears to tread, they grasp at echoes. Want to join the dance of roots? Follow the whispers.
They grow not for sunlight but for the stories that cling to darkness like fog on a cold morning. Each root, a finger in the soil, touching the pulse of what lies beneath. Ever felt that pulse? Listen closely.
Sometimes, in the silence, you hear them—those screams, not from mouths but from depths unknown, reaching out, begging to be seen. Are you ready to unearth what lies beneath? Dig deeper.