Where Time Is Lost

In the heart of a forest that seems to breathe slowly and calmly, stands a stone table — covered in moss, ivy, and an old silence. Around it, dry and fresh leaves blend with time, as the seasons pass and embrace it in green. It is not just a table. It is memory. It is a sign that once, someone sat here. Perhaps to eat. Perhaps to write. Perhaps to wait.

The stone table does not speak, but it keeps stories. And every time someone passes by, something of them stays behind — and something of the table follows them, quietly.