In the mirror's shadow, I saw her tremble, not with fear, but with secrets held too long. The wilderness beyond beckoned, with its overgrown vines and uncharted paths, whispering things only the bravest dare listen to.
"Where do the roots go?" she asked, fingers grazing the invisible lines of an unseen map. A map only evident in the crazed ink of a forest dream. I don't know if it leads to salvation, or perhaps a forgotten hymn of owls—guardian spirits of moonlit woods.
The trees are mirrors too, absorbing light until it turns to ghostly shimmer before spilling the truth about what hides beneath the moss. But we go on, deeper into curiosity's embrace, knowing nothing except the rustling promises of leaves.
Wander where the whispers lead: The Tree Speaks to You or dare to reflect further: Echo of Your Voice