In the hollow of the tree,
a silence curls upon itself,
knees drawn tight,
as if waiting for a dream to hatch.

The bark parts like ribs,
and within—
a figure of stone breathes
petals and shadow,
a sentinel stitched from dust.

Ellyllon drift through the cracks,
their laughter
a thin silver thread,
their wings—
a memory of moths dissolving in flame.

Even the roots lean inward,
drinking secrets,
learning how grief
can turn to fruit.

This is no shrine,
but a seam in the world
where time folds back on itself,
and the forgotten child
still listens
for a language
that once taught silence
how to bloom.

In the corner of the room
a chair waits,
its wood worn smooth
by years of weight and silence.

A hat leans careless
on its shoulder,
as if someone rose quickly,
promising to return.

The carpet holds shadows—
damp stains of footsteps
that linger longer than voices,
longer than warmth.

The room holds its breath.
Even the walls remember,
scratched with the silence
of what was left behind.