Beneath the canopy, the noise of the world softens into silence.

But linger long enough, and you’ll hear the forest’s hum — a song of forgotten hymns, of blotted pages in dusty journals left open to the damp and the dark; the hushed rustle of cloaks against frozen ground; the silent reverence of bones and dreams pulled from deep onyx mud and left to dry by the water’s edge.

Autumn’s breath still clings to the air, rich with smoke and warmth, yet winter is already threading her silver through the roots. All the while, the moon hangs heavy above — patient and watching — as the forest folds in on itself, half-asleep, half-awake.

And if you pay attention — beyond the crackle of the wick, beyond the hum of the cold — you’ll notice something unseen stirs just beyond the candlelight.

The forest is no fairytale. It’s wild. It’s feral. 
It’s Sylvan Soul.