Deep within the woods, beyond the twisted roots and the quiet vigilance of age-old trees, where the atmosphere is saturated with moss and reminiscence, there lies a sound that hums beneath the melody of birds, an echo of cascading water. No trail guides you there, only the soft rustle of ferns turning away from unseen footsteps, and the shimmer of wet stone, partially engulfed by years gone by. Some believe this waterfall is elusive, gliding through the earth like a fleeting dream, never appearing in the same spot twice. You might feel it just behind you, a silver glimmer among the foliage, but when you spin around, only quietness greets you. Others assert it is perpetually present, lingering just beyond the grasp of weary wanderers, its call heard only by those who do not pursue it. Approach too closely, and the air thickens, heavy with an unnamed essence. The water does not crash or thunder, rather, it hums softly, slowly, as if sharing a tale that no ear can fully seize. Some who discover it never come back. Others return with vacant gazes, chapped lips, and trembling hands, never uttering a word about what they experienced. The waterfall endures, shrouded in mist, dim light, and forsaken names. Not merely a location, but an essence, an entity that is older than the trees, older than the breeze, biding its time. ©️ 2025 James Michael