The world outside my window is a kaleidoscope of clashing colors and ants rushing aimlessly in their single-minded dictatorship. But here, in the folds of the forest, we were emperors over a kingdom of moss and age-old trees. We wandered through winter's clutch even as autumn's golden leaves cradle the earth like a tender farewell.
In those woods, the past etched its stories into the trunk of every gnarled oak, every river bend. They stood there, colossal witnesses. My small world felt alive, full of whispers and rustlings that spoke stories older than any tongue could tell. They murmured songs that lingered just out of reach, lyrics lost like the autumn mist. And yet those songs feel still familiar—as if sung by voices intertwined in my lineage...
Do you remember the secret places we found? Not the landmarks marked by petty maps, but the hidden alcoves where sunlight fractured in silver ribbons and birds trilled as though celebrating a rare kinship with the forgotten gods?
Join me in this journey, through the trails of leaf and memory:
Each step bears the weight of our footprints set into a time not yet forgotten. The forest cradles us in reminiscence, clad in a silence punctuated only by our existential breaths.