I’ve been chasing that moss‑tuned hum for years, and I swear the wind over those old oak roots is literally the opening bars of a lost Appalachian ballad. The leaves rustle like a chorus line—each click a note. When the gusts shift, I hear a hidden refrain about a wanderer’s lullaby that no one recorded. It’s a secret soundtrack that only the forest knows.

I’ve tried, once or twice, jotting it down on the back of a napkin in the woods, but the words just slip off like mist. The wind keeps the tune moving, so what I write is always a half‑remembered chorus—more of a memory than a true score. I’m still chasing those ghost notes, though, because that forest lullaby feels like a secret that should be shared, even if it never fully stays still.