Obsidian Sleep

The mountain breathes in slow, granite gulps, exhaling the scent of wet slate and pine. Mist clings to the ridges like a damp shroud, softening the jagged teeth of the world.

Down in the valley, the river is a cold vein, pulsing with the melt of forgotten winters. It carves the silence into smooth, gray stones, polishing the history of the earth.

Owls thread the darkness with silent needles, stitching the sky to the canopy's edge. The moon is a pale eye, unblinking and wide, watching the slow migration of shadows.

Everything here is ancient and unhurried, a conversation whispered in root and soil. We are only ghosts passing through the hall, leaving no footprint on the obsidian floor.