In the forgotten corners of this glade, silence clings like an old veil. Here, the trees wear crowns of shadows, their bark knotted with tales not meant for light. The air is thick with suspended truth, the kind that breathes through cracks in trunk and soil, each breath a reminder of life unseen but deeply felt.
"What you do not see, you do not know. Yet here, it knows."
Decomposed remnants of yesterday’s grandeur lie sprawled between roots, a tapestry woven of fragmented beauty and lost whispers. Moss clutches skeletal remains of once-proud branches, like memories too stubborn to fade. The ground, a whispering voice, murmurs with every step—root, stone, and leaf a testimony to the ugliest truth: decay is a form of silence too.
Murmur and you'll find the echo, or perhaps infection, of life lurking in its grasp. Or tread lightly into the passage to witness where silence births sound, sound that could shatter this slumber.