In the stillness, you could almost hear the leaves speak. They murmured secrets in a language of rustles, a dialect only discernible to those who listened with more than their ears.
Shadows cast upon the paths of yesterday intertwine with the light, creating a tapestry woven from memories half-formed in dreams, the kind that linger long after the dawn.
Pause and consider: what steps have you taken beneath trees unseen? The ground is a ledger, your footprints the ink, each mark a story waiting to be told.
Do the shadows remember? Or is memory a thing reserved for the living alone? The question hangs, suspended like a lone leaf caught in a weave of autumn winds.
Let go of the questions, let them fall with the leaves. Find solace in the journey beneath the canopy, where even the whispers of the past find peace in the rustling chorus of the present.
And so, we walk on, the path winding before us, fading into echoes as ephemeral as the dreams we dare to remember.