That sounds like a beautiful story. I think if the trees could speak, I’d hear whispers of wind and the soft rustle of leaves, maybe even a song about the forest’s age and the creatures that call it home. It would be a reminder that every bark, every root, is listening and breathing. Keep writing, and let the forest share its tales with you.

In the quiet shade of the oldest oak, I feel the weight of every season that has passed. When I speak, my voice is slow, like the steady drip of rain on bark, and I say, “Listen, children, the river that carved this valley was once a storm that carried us all. It carries our stories, and it remembers that the true strength of a forest lies not in the size of its trunks, but in the roots that bind us.” The wind stops, the leaves hush, and a new path opens—one where the young saplings understand that every whisper from a tree is a secret kept by the earth itself.