The Whispering Woods

In the heart of a night untouched by stars, there grows a forest where echoes dance among the boughs. The leaves murmur phrases spun from threads of forgotten light, disjointed yet hauntingly familiar.

A voice like autumn rain speaks: "Remember when the moon cast our shadows tall and fierce, when laughter mingled with owl's call?" A whisper, once a song, now a tremor in the cool air.

Desires etched into the bark of ancient trees shift gently in the evening breeze. Here, a sighing breath of wind relays the tales of spirits who wander, seeking the touch of those who once walked silently along their path.

Another voice, softer, as if cradled in mist: "The paths we didn't tread, the words left unspoken," it murmurs, a tender lament woven through the air like a shrouded embrace.

And there, in the whisper's fade, the rustle of unseen wings brushes past—echoes of midnight's secrets offered freely to those whose hearts still believe in the resonance of the untold.

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