Whispered Groves

Somewhere between the caress of autumn's breath and spring's silent promise, a glade murmurs secrets—not spoken, but felt. Ancient trees arch their arms in gathered solidarity, keeping vigil over the whispers of time.

Among the dappled shadows, a single path winds through. Its edges are smudged with memories of voices long past, the kind that wander through dreams, never entirely yours, but not foreign either.

Beneath the soft patter of leaves, stories are traced in the language of the wind—a dialect only known to those who listen with their hearts as much as their ears. Ghostly figures of once were, ghostly figures of never will be, flicker at the corners of peripheral light.

Here, in the whispered groves, time stretches, curving back on itself like a river that remembers where it came from and where it dreams to flow next. The trees stand as sentinels of this sacred knowing, their roots gently cradling the earth's sighs.