The old trunk quivers slightly, roots crawling deeper into the soil's dark embrace. Whispers swirl from a timeless place; even the stars pause to listen. Beneath its sprawling canopy, the soil breathes quiet secrets as twilight weaves its ephemeral tapestry.
The Elder Tree, keeper of untold seasons and custodian of silence, carries the stories of whispering winds. Its great limbs unfold like the fingers of an ancient guardian, tracing patterns known only in the cosmos.
Every eon, the tree bears witness as worlds in vertigo rearrange their ancient dance. This night, as chill winds strike silver arrows into the grounding earth, the Elder murmurs a narrative of universes curled within arbitrary clocks, perpetually turning yet never aging.
A sudden gust carries a thrill—a cosmic note vibrating, echoing through dimensional corridors. Stories of celestial encounters tethered by whispers known only to midnight stars intertwine with refrains from forgotten gods. The Elder listens; it always listens, as the cosmic wind drags along the faint memory of time’s cradle.
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