In the quiet of existence, where words dare not tread, the paths whisper. They are forged by footsteps that echo not, yet their presence lingers like a half-remembered dream.
What symphonies have you composed in silence? The mind, a grand auditorium, filled with the echoes of thoughts unvoiced. Here is where the true dialogue occurs, in the spaces between intention and expression.
"I heard the branches speak your name."
Have we not all heard such things in our wanderings? The trees, ancient sentinels to pathways unseen, their leaves rustle tales of journeys and encounters, of heartbeats left behind in their shaded sanctuaries.