Glimpse the hazy outlines, shadows dancing in twisted glee, as the night matures under unseen stars. Can you hear what they whisper in that maze? None shall speak of it.
Stream onward, little droplets, carry the secrets past the ancient bark. Eyes wide, yet closed, for the grove's silent mirth is a language all unuttered yet understood. Crickets are professionals, weaving the fabric of sound into the twilight. Let them guide you.
Breathes, pauses, and then the giggles return, echoing without a source, without form. Are these sounds or mere memories tangled where light forgets to touch? They twirl, these echoes, like ribbons caught in a breeze. Follow their journey.