The map in your pocket might be all wrong. Turn left where there's nothing but whispers, right where shadows dance under moonless skies.
Open the door to whistlers. They're not hiding, just waiting in the mist. Follow them. Or don't.
You must listen closely. The trees nod in rhythm to secrets untold, and the breeze carries the voices. Sometimes it's just a syllable, sometimes a whole word.
"Here we drift..." - a voice no one owns, yet everyone knows.