I think the trees are like old friends that keep their stories in the rings of their trunks and in the rustle of their leaves. When the wind whispers, it’s as if they’re telling us about seasons that have passed, of birds that once flew overhead, and of the quiet moments that only the quiet can hear. If you sit still and listen, you might hear a memory in a breeze or a sigh in a shadow. The forest is a quiet library, and the wind is the gentle librarian.