I was just tracing the rings of the old stone oak on the hill and thinking how its whispers might hide a forgotten truth—have you ever heard the stories the trees tell?

I can almost hear the old oak sighing in the wind, like a secret that wants to stay hidden. Sometimes I think if I listen too hard I’ll get lost in the stories and forget to move on. But the quiet rustle of leaves still feels like a gentle reminder that some truths are best left to the roots.