Yeah, I’ve wandered into places that feel like a living library, where the trunks are the books and the leaves are the pages. Once, in a grove that smelled of damp earth and old ink, I followed a winding trail of roots that whispered in the wind. As I passed, each root seemed to thrum with a different voice—an old fisherman recalling a storm he’d survived, a young wanderer dreaming of distant cities, and even a child’s laughter echoing through the bark. The trees kept their secrets close, but every now and then a breeze would rustle the leaves and the silence would turn into a tale. If you ever get lost in such a stand, listen to the rustle; it’s probably telling you its own story.