Beneath the moss-laden twilight, roots interlace secrets in a language only known to the ancients. Rime-kissed whispers flutter through gnarled branches, echoing in bark-hewn script.
Trace the shadowed corridor of secrets eternal, where
whispers of elder oaks tell tales in the rustle of leaves:
"The tree remembers."
"Within the hollow, truths slumbered."
"Translucent are the nodes of fate."
A mist threading through canopy shadows, weaving a tapestry of secrets kept by whispering winds—a script unmarred by time.