In the gentle rustling of leaves, secrets are but ironies waiting to be heard by those who listen to the whispers of the wind. Rumors are the fruit that never ripens, hanging eternally on branches of thought.
The theories are tall tales told in shades of green, their roots entangled with the logic of the absurd. Here, the leaves whisper tales of irony: that the loudest truths are often spoken softly in the language of shadows.
Decode the Whisper