In the stillness of suspended canopies, where legends breathe between the cracks of night, lies the warmth of forsaken tales—etched in moonlight's confined embrace. Once, the stars sang these stories to an audience of shadows.
"They are never truly gone," whispers a voice from the old oak, "only waiting..."
Miles away in forgotten depth, the cobwebs of secrecy weave through the cracks of time—an eternal night where warmth lingers in whispered prayers, threaded through echoes of bygone wonder. The earth remembers, even when we forget.
"Listen," says the wind, "for it holds all that you seek in silence."