Your feet, anchored in soil, follow the ancient rhythm. The forest floor sighs beneath your steps. Leaves murmuring a melody only they remember.
Amidst towering sentinels of time, we dance. An unspoken language glows in the mossy texture, encryption seeped through resin and shadow. Can you hear it?
The secret is written in the sap that runs cold and quiet, etching histories into the rings of oak.
We twirl, a duet of memories and bark-covered truths. Her branches cradle your whispers—the longing, the bittersweet tang of lost seasons.
And when the final note lingers, it is a silent duet with the roots. Intertwined like our stories, waiting for the next whisper of wind to know our names.