In the hollow embrace of the elder grove, it was said that the winds carried silence older than spoken word. The trees beckoned, weaving tales in the murmuring leaves. A meeting was soon to take place beneath the moon's tentative gaze, where roots churn in unseen swells.
Trevor sat at the edge, sketching absentmindedly from where the low whispers settled over the earth. An alphabet at his fingers crafted on weathered bark. Stories of adventure, laughter and perhaps, a merchant he did not know (and do not remember?), struggled in the curls and knots that sometimes murmured the past willingly. Sometimes...
Nearby, Alice found herself baffled by almost spun silk words held in the knots between branches. She traced endless scribbles over the leaves that landed idly as tender green paper became solemn letters deliverables for an invisible post themed forwards rarely.
Yet these meanderings wove something dazzling. Unperturbed, the forest watched them vested, approving nods sent with every creak and subtle bending of sentries five-hundreds aged twice at least, evidenced in ringed reminisces weaving beyond common perception.