"Do you hear the cicada's secret?" she asked, peering through the fronds. "Sometimes they whisper songs lost to the sun."

His coat was mossy green, clinging to him like old friends lost to memory. "This path splits, doesn't it?" he remarked, staring at shadows that danced like old echoes.

A voice wafted through, smooth as river stones: "I think the orchids have a postcard to send," it said, wrapping around the air's humid embrace.

The ground sighed, a soft breath under the canopy. "What do you think, are we walking or dreaming?"

In reply, filaments of laughter cracked like dry leaves, leading nowhere and everywhere.

"Who knew thorns could sing?", she mused, taking a solitary step along the vine-swirled trail.

Symbols in the bark spoke volumes. "Just stare long enough, and the letters become footprints," he whispered back, eyes glazing with thought.

Through the undergrowth, another trail emerged: one coated in dew and dreams, hinting at mornings forgotten by the waking world.