Whispers of the Wooden Grove

Inhale deeply; breathe in the scent of bark. Follow the pathways lined with shadows, where light tiptoes softly, cradling dreams of splintered wood. Feel the moss caress your feet like a lover's hand—every step, a binding promise.

To your left, notice the fading shadows dance like ancient marionettes. Count them, as one, then another, and as you reach three, kaleidoscopic textures drift by, molded in the frivolity of your imagination.

Do not approach the red toadstool, its whispers bellow secrets.
If you see a sparrow wearing a hat, do as it instructs—the answer is elusive yet clear.
Find the mossy stone, place your palm there only when the sun bleeds golden tears.

As you wander aimlessly, your heart sings the songs of forgotten crows; listen as they retrieve stories from the compartments of clouds. It is essential to forget the path, for the adventure unfurls like a lazy river.

Seek the invisible door where the air hums a lingering tune of leave and return. Pull the fleeting threads that drape over the rocks and shadowed corners; pull until seams of time unquilt.

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