In the half-light of dawn, where the trees stood watch like ancient sentinels, there rested a glade known to few. The air was different here, thick with and echoes of muted conversations.
It was said that those who entered this place would hear the earth's pulse. Yet, what few acknowledged was the woven into the silence, a dialect only understood by the patient.
Amara ventured there, drawn by an . With each step, she listened, attuned to the whispers curling around her like mist.
At the heart of the glade, she discovered an marker, covered in moss and lichen, its inscriptions a tapestry of time. Her fingers traced the weathered grooves, and slowly, a story unfolded—written not in words, but in the symphony of rustling leaves and soft murmurs of the wind.
Beyond the veil of reality, beneath the canopy of the world, the pulse of the glade continued its eternal .