Poem

Beneath the ancient oak tree, where roots tangled like secrets and the earth smelled of rain, a lone lantern flickered. Its light danced with the shadows, weaving stories only night could hear. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called out—a haunting note that echoed through the forest's stillness. In that moment, time felt like a held breath, as if the world waited for a choice yet to be made, a word yet to be spoken, or a path yet to be taken. Such is the magic of night, where every rustle of leaves carries the whisper of possibility.