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They say some dances are older than time. And some dancers need no feet, just a little moonlight and a pinch of magic. The glade was round, as if cut into the forest by a single breath. Not a tree ventured beyond its edge. Instead: mushrooms. Hundreds. In spirals, circles, waves. Large ones like stools. Small ones like coins. And all of them—alive. Lyora entered the glade at sunset, as the last light floated between the trees like gold dust. She heard nothing. But something vibrated in the air—a faint rhythm, little more than a flutter in her stomach. Then the first mushroom moved. A twitch, a tilt. The second followed, and suddenly—a dance. No music, and yet they danced. Mushrooms with velvet caps and dots like stars. They spun, bobbed, almost floated, as if answering an ancient calling. Lyora sat down on a moss-covered stone and let herself be carried away by the dance. The ground pulsed beneath her—not dangerously, but like a beating heart. Then, as if at a secret signal, some of the mushrooms opened. Not like flowers, but like books. Their caps flipped open, and images flickered within them: a flying ship, a sleeping tiger made of mist, a tree that breathed words. The mushrooms danced stories. And Lyora understood: This was not a clearing—it was a memory. A living repository of all those moments that were never written down. Feelings no one could put into words. Dreams too delicate for paper. And so they danced on, night after night, for all those who listened without asking. And when Lyora left, a single mushroom flew after her and grew near her from then on—whenever she opened the window at night and the silence was ready to dance.
