In the woods where shadows breathe, a voice whispers softly in the falling dusk. It circles round, echoing through the boughs, a lullaby woven from the dreams of ancient trees. "Sleep, little wanderer," it hums, "let the night carry you in its gentle embrace."
As the moon rises, the whispers grow, filling the air with a melody only the stars understand. It's a song of solace, of forgotten paths and unseen doorways, where every step is a note, every breath a harmony. The crickets join in, their chirps a chorus to the silent symphony.
Beyond the canopy, the world dims, yet the voice remains—a constant, a compass in the dark. You follow it, drawn by its serene insistence, until the dawn is but a distant promise. Leave the visible or enter the labyrinth.
"Encircle yourself," the wind seems to say, "like the moon that traces the sky, like the tides that kiss the shore." And so, you find yourself moving in that circular dance, a participant in the eternal whisper.