The Silent Canopy

Leaves woven in emerald tapestries filter the harsh white glare of noon into a trembling, fragile gold. Roots gnarl around forgotten stones, anchoring the earth’s quiet breath.

A single drop falls from the fern, measuring time in silver beads against the mossy, ancient floor. The wind speaks a language of rustles, a chorus without a single voice.

Shadows stretch like bruised velvet as dusk seeps through the timbered hall. The forest folds into its own embrace, leaving only the scent of pine and the vast, echoing stillness.