As you enter, the soft murmurs (so faint, so fleeting) lure you deeper into the hollow of the trees.
In the rustle of the autumn leaves, a truth untold: the moonlight stitched the shadows, binding time with gentle threads.
Beneath the pines, voice of the wind: stories written upon the breath of dawn, words lost to the stone's silent abyss.
Bare feet touch the sacred soil.
"Follow me," echoed the forlorn specter, vanishing into dreams aligned with starlit paths.