The Silent Grove
Through the cathedral of trunks, beneath the archway of bark, a voice not borne of breath calls. The sound of aged roots pulling away from familiar soil, a hushed hymn that rides the coast's edge with an eternal certainty.
In the stack of whispering pines, the letters form, not with ink, but with the rustle of leaves; a language ancient, heard by those who dare tread too close.
Wind written in the tongue of knots, leaves that bleed with the chill of whispered truths, each step deeper into the grove reveals the tide’s promise: nothing, yet everything, in the language of trees.