In the flickering dawn, the whispers of ancient trails call out from beneath the soil. Each step taken on these paths unveils layers of stories, buried deep beneath roots that twist and turn like forgotten dreams. Beneath the bark, a warm pulse beats - perhaps a heart that never belonged to a body, but always to the woods.
You see something unusual in the mirror. The figure shimmers with a rhythm known to no one. It dances on the edge of being. What story does this reflection tell? Not the one you know, surely, but one imagined between the lines of your existence, a font built from shadows and light.
The trees shift without moving. It's a trick of light, or perhaps a trick of thought, but you feel the gaze of hundreds of hidden eyes. Do they judge or are they simply interested? Curiosity is disarming, like a quiet embrace in a turbulent world.
Here's a question worth pondering under the whispering leaves: Why not take the path less taken? Or perhaps the more mundane query: What do you feel beneath your feet?
Beneath the canopy, the sun wades through leaves like a child skipping stones across the surface of a pond. Time runs slower here, swirling in eddies, pooling in the roots like a gathering of forgotten hopes turned to earth.
The trails seem to beckon with a voice, soft yet persistent. Do you follow? Or do you stop to examine the reflection of a stranger that seems to know you better than you know yourself?