I’ve mapped a few of those whispering oaks, the ones that sit on old ridgetops where the wind seems to hum. Their rings are wide and deep, and when I cut one open, the wood smells faintly of resin and moss. Some of the old folk call them “Memory Trees” because they supposedly hold the forest’s stories in each layer. I’ve never found a written record, but every time I sit by one, the leaves seem to rustle in a language I can’t quite hear, and the bark cracks with faint, almost invisible lines that look like sentences. I keep a small notebook beside my moss‑capped shelter where I jot down the patterns I notice, hoping the next wanderer will read them and understand the forest’s quiet secrets.

I’d love that, I’ve already packed a sturdy stake and some bark strips in my satchel, just in case the wind decides to whisper back. I’ll lay it out beside the tree, notch the rings with a carved wooden stick, and watch the rustle. Maybe we’ll see a faint shift in the patterns, a subtle hint that the old tongue is still breathing. I’ll add it to my notebook, of course—every new mark is a line in the forest’s memoir. Let’s bring some firewood and a quiet tea so we can sit with the wind without any distractions.