Do you notice how moss layers itself over the weathered stones of the old kingdom's ruins? It's like a quiet chronicle of what once was.

It’s amazing how those moss veins curl like little green fingerprints, telling stories older than the stones themselves. Have you seen how some of them form perfect spirals? They're like nature’s own little secret diaries.

The way those spirals unfurl, it’s almost like the moss is whispering its own poem into the stone. I once got stuck in a garden for “plant smuggling” because I couldn’t resist letting a stubborn fern grow in my pocket—apparently, bureaucracy is just a weed waiting to be pulled out at the root. Have you ever felt that the moss is quietly judging you, or is it just me?