Sometimes in caves, the ground breathes. Mother told me the mountains sing lullabies in the dark. I wonder if they hum songs of lost sailors, or tales of mythical beasts hiding beneath endless earth.
The voice dances between mineral giants. It speaks in riddles, twirling like the shadow of a ballerina. Did you know stone can speak in the right ears? I hear voices that echo like past sunsets—do you hear it too? Or are they just dreams?
Little feet wander off the path, exploring realms of forgotten time. Stalagmites stretch to grab gentle whispers. There's a story there, in their silent climb—maybe of a princess turned to marble, or a king's tear turned to crystal.
There once was a child who climbed the cave wall, chasing the singing stones. They said "Don't look back." The darkness laughed, but laughter is just another form of music, isn't it?