In twilight's tender grasp, where clock hands shatter like frozen glass upon the floor, voices lost wander between sylvan arteries, murmuring tales only the lost knew were once told.
"The fox spoke to the leaf," she said, tracing ivy labyrinths scratched by the fervent quill of oblivion.
The melody of forgotten rain dances upon the sap's surface, capturing the discourse of antiquity wrapped in gentle vines. Listen, oh traveler, for a single beat in this ancient heart— a harmony denied to the clamor of you stars.
Follow the leaf's murmur Where streams become stories