Filed: Lore
The moss is cold beneath my bare feet. Moonlight filters through the leafy canopy, casting its pearlescent glow across the soft green undergrowth of the forest floor.
If I stand perfectly still, I can hear them—the whispers of the forest.
Some say the voices belong to those long passed. Some say they’re the whispers of woodland spirits. Others insist it’s only the wind.
The scent of pine and woodsmoke drifts through the trees, brushing against my face like the touch of a long-lost lover. I can feel the silence breathing beneath my skin.
The mountain calls to me.
Whether woodland spirits or voices of the past, they call me home. Their stories are woven through the roots beneath the soil. Their names—forgotten by everyone but time—rest tangled beneath the earth.
If you listen closely, you can hear it.
A song as old as the mountain itself.
Nothing dead is ever gone.