In colors of soft pastels, patterns emerge. They dance, they sing, they whisper of stories unfinished.
A tale once bloomed, oh how it laughed! The paint could not dry, for it was shy. The clouds knew secrets, but they kept their own whisper.
Where once were woods, there were castles. Made of dreams and sand, by the little hands that never were. But shadows hide others whispering out of time.
“Who was here before?” the trees asked. For they loved knowing things that were never true... or always were but only the grass knew.
Faded footsteps led to paths not written, in books that opened only when the moon was half sleepy. Cows yawned, and the world forgot ordinary business.
Follow the whispers to woven echoes Slip into forgotten rivers of color