From the story of the magical forest The Pool of Silent Singing

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It was said that one could not search for it. The Pool of Silent Singing revealed itself only to those who had been silent long enough to hear the echo of their own hearts. Lyora didn't know this when she set out. The map she carried was made of gossamer parchment and showed no names, only lines that changed as one looked. She followed them nonetheless—over mossy walkways, through glades where the green shimmered as if filtered through twilight, beneath gnarled arches of roots that lay stretched across the path like sleeping dragons. The air was both soft and heavy, like a song dissolving at the edges of consciousness. Birds with silver throats sang melodies that carried no language—and yet they understood. Whenever Lyora paused, they bounded ahead, fluttering over bushes, scurrying from branch to branch, as if to show her that you didn't always have to know where you were going. And then there was no path. The ground became soft and rootless. Grass that wouldn't bend. And suddenly: water. Still. Glassy. Not a breath of wind. Not a rustle. Just a faint, humming vibration in the air—not from insects, not from leaves. It was the water itself, humming. The pond lay there like a thought long forgotten. No ripples. No play of light. Just surface, clear as unsaid words. Lyora stepped closer. The map in her hand dissolved, disintegrated into a final glow that sank into the pond without ever landing. And suddenly there was something on the surface of the water. Not a reflection. Not an image. Instead—memories of dreams that weren't hers. Or were they? A tree with blue flames instead of leaves. A book that made music when it was opened. A shadow that laughed when you looked at it, but only when your back was turned. She saw images, sounds, movements – possibilities. The pond didn't sing with words. It hummed in a language you didn't understand, but felt. Every ripple, every note, was a question mark that didn't want to be answered – but reminded her. Of what could have been. And perhaps still would be. Lyora knelt at the edge. The moss was soft as cloud fur. Her fingers dipped into the water. A tingling sensation, cool and bright, ran up her arms. Like the first snowflake falling. Like the first "yes" that no one heard. And then – silence. Not emptiness. But a silence full of sound. So full that her shoulders slumped. Her breathing changed. Something let go inside her. The pond sang her. Not her name. But her tone. For every being, the Forest Whisperer had once said, carries its own sound within it—a song no ear can hear, but every heart can remember. She didn't know how long she stayed there. Perhaps an hour. Perhaps a night. Perhaps a lifetime.