Secrets of the Wood Whispers

In a realm where the trees were ancient guardians, there grew a tale unspooled by the winds. The forest, verdant and sprawling, held within its gnarled branches the murmurs of a language forgotten to time—wood whispers that floated like smoke under the light of a waxing moon. It was said that these whispers belonged to the heart of the woodland itself, a sentient archive of memories that stretched back to the dawn when the first roots broke free from the cradle of the earth.

A traveler once drawn by dreams etched in starlight heard them first at sunrise, the melody woven into the rustling leaves, a forgotten symphony played upon the strings of pine needles. As he ventured deeper, the path unraveled beneath his feet, revealing corridors of light and shadow, where each step whispered secrets around him—secrets of migrations unseen, of the thunderous march of deer across the milennia, and the hushed sobs of trees mourning their lost brethren.