In shadow's embrace, where whispers convene,
An old tree stands, its bark a tapestry of dreams,
Scribbled upon pages of unseen ink,
Lies the riddle, woven in twilight's breath.
Riddle: I am not alive, yet I grow;
I do not breathe, yet I exhale;
I am a guardian of secrets, wrapped in silken veils.
What am I?