A hush blankets the earth, where snow curves like soft sighs across the hills. Bare trees, like charcoal etchings on white parchment, stand in solemn chorus—silent witnesses to the wind’s quiet lament. Their twisted limbs reach skyward, yearning, remembering warmth. In this muted world of slate and frost, time slows, breathes, and listens—to the poetry of stillness, to the echo of seasons long gone.