In the half-light where shadows breathe, whispers tell of ancient gales. Dreams cling to the veins of leaves, holding the secrets of tangled destinies. Below, the earth listens.
A child found a message written in the dew on a rainy afternoon: “The willow dreams of wandering skies.” Its meaning was lost, but haunting like the murmurs of a secret stream.
Do you remember the lost path beneath the brambles? There, the air thickens with unsaid words, waiting for the sun to weave them into stories untold. They whisper of roads diverging, past the brook where the stars drank water once.
Visit the memory of the ground, where every footstep writes an echo in the dust, a chapter in the tale of whispers.