The forest is not a place. It is a breath. Rising from the ground, a single body made of trunks, branches, and leaves — each tree a vertebra, each leaf an open hand. In its clear veins flows ancient water, remembering the first rains. Step inside, and time begins to slow. Footsteps sink into a memory older than ours. You think you hear voices, but it is only the patient dialogue of wind and sap. Everything here is a gift: air, shade, coolness, and the slow emergence of sound, like the earth breathing. The goddess does not speak. The trees speak for her, in the silent language of roots.

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