In the heart of the moss-veiled forest, where light danced like memory across the stones, the stream spoke in riddles. It was said that if you listened closely—not with ears, but with breath—you could hear the water recall the dreams of the mountain.
Lira came barefoot, carrying nothing but a question. Her village had lost its song, and the elders said the answer lay in the stream’s oldest bend, where the water forgets its name and becomes pure motion.
She knelt by the rocks, letting the spray kiss her skin. The current shimmered with stories: of rain that once fell on a comet’s tail, of roots that drank moonlight, of a fish who remembered the stars.
Then, in the hush between droplets, the stream whispered: “To find the song, become the silence it needs.”
Lira closed her eyes. Her heartbeat slowed. The water flowed through her—not around her—and in that stillness, the song returned. It was not hers, not the village’s, but the earth’s. And it was enough.
Thaaat's all for now 👣 Thank You for Beeeing You 🐝
🕯Lifeee is BeautyFull 🌻 InJoy the Journey🕯
Wholeness & Balanced Vibrations 🌳🙏🌳
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