In these woods, there are no paths, only unseen trails where thoughts linger. A story of edges not yet softened by the pen's touch waits in the shadows, whispering to those who dare to listen.
Perhaps here, in these silent groves, lies the dream of clear words, woven upon unread pages, yearning to be shaped by trembling hands and fleeting thought.
With every breath, the intangible wisdom of lost words flows like mist. Each gust of wind carries the echo of a life unlived, a tale unspun in the quiet corners of time.
Beyond these trees, a memory stands waiting, parting the veil of what was and what could be, standing tall against the passage of all that is reduce to a mere whisper.
Seated upon roots twisted with age, I ponder the echoes—the reflections of paths chosen or forsaken. Here, stories grow as a tree grows, unhurried, unfolding skyward with grace.