In the heart of the wood, where light drifts through in fractured threads, there stands a tree that never sheds its memory. Each leaf hangs heavy with what once was — laughter caught between branches, footsteps softened by moss, the murmurs of those who have long since gone.
When the wind passes, it doesn’t stir; it sighs. The branches bend low, not from age, but remembrance. Beneath them, the air smells of rain that never fell, of green things dreaming in the dark.
This piece was born from that sorrowful grace — chains woven like roots, leaves tumbling in a slow descent. It is the forest in mourning and in bloom all at once, the hush before dusk when everything alive seems to listen.
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