Once, there was a tree with leaves made of whispers. Below, the soil held the weight of memories not yet forgotten, buried like the sighs of a thousand untold stories. As I walked around its trunk, the earth crumbled beneath me, revealing
the fragments of dreams—not made of starlight, but of starlight long gone, fossilized and cracked, waiting for the touch of curious hands. It was then I realized: dreams weave themselves into the fabric of reality, like threads in a tapestry woven by hands unseen.
In the quiet of the night, a song rises—a melody lost to time, yet familiar as the echo of a heartbeat. It speaks of ancient journeys, of paths walked by those who listened to the song of the stars. Do you hear it? The voice of the forest, wrapped in the
embrace of cool winds, uttering words made of light and shadow. The night has its own rhythm, a pulse that thrums beneath your feet, carrying the weight of unspoken truths, resting in the hollows of forgotten trees.