They say the forest remembers. With every rustle of leaves and creak of branches, stories of old breathe faintly through the wooden cathedral, spoken between the crosshatches of shadow and light.
A traveler once paused at the fringe of a quiet grove. Here, at the meeting place of whispers, he heard tales of those who walked the loamy paths before. In the pine-scented air, fragments of conversation drifted like dust motes in an antique shop, waiting to be assembled.
Yet it was the silences in between that spoke the loudest—those pauses embellishing the narrative where tall tales met truth. Here, the ethereal was grounded, nestled in the roots amongst the remnants of yesterday.
Reach out your hand. Feel the grain, each line a trail once journeyed, and listen closely. The woods have their secrets, if only to those who dare to hear.