Once, there were echoes of laughter weaving through the willow's branches, tales spun in forgotten languages, now silenced by time's fickle embrace.
The ground beneath is written upon in invisible ink, histories linger as shadows—not seen, not heard, simply known.
Imagine the willow encounters falling stars, whose wishes are absorbed into the bark, until one day a traveler reads them aloud: "abracadabra."
And then what was, became what is not. A transformation, a transmutation, the old words reforming into new shapes like mists at dawn.
In the heart of this neverland, a labyrinth of syllables crumbles, revealing archways to realms not charted in any book—a passage of pensive riddles and cherished oblivion.
Unveil the paths anew: