In the twilight hour of autumn's waning embrace, the elder tree convened. Branches quivered with tales of yore, engraved in rippled bark, whispering an encrypted language: the tongue of the forest.
When roots danced to the rhythm of unseen winds, a chorus erupted from leaf-tips, translating a story of collapse not in despair, but in whispered harmony. Cones and seeds murmured secrets, scattered across the decay of years.
Silent witnesses, the trees grew wise, weaving their whispers through air dense with history, grasping at truths buried beneath layers of moss and time. Beneath crowns that kiss the sky, language etched itself into the very soil nourished by its own demise.