In the mornings, dew settles on pine needles and weaves stories of nights unobserved. Those whispers... stories folded into tree bark, etched into fern leaves, waiting for someone who might decipher the language of silence.
There was a woman years ago — every evening she'd sit among the elder trees, murmuring back to the wind. Folk said she spoke with spirits tethered to the roots, casting nets to gather moonlight woven in sound.
Once upon a shadow cast by starlight, a boy heard the hum from within the grove. It guided him to paths unseen, where luminous fungi glimmered under twisted limbs, revealing doorways to nowhere the eyes could follow.