Whispers of the Fog

In the heart of the night where the shadows creep,

A secret stirs where the willows weep.

Beneath the moon’s pale, silvered glow,

Lies a tale of woe from long ago.

A cobbled path through the forest bends,

To a village where silence never ends.

The church bell tolls, though no one’s near,

An echo of grief laced with fear.

By the edge of the lake, so black and wide,

A phantom figure seeks to hide.

Her gown of mist, her eyes of stone,

Forever cursed to walk alone.

The townsfolk whisper of her plight,

A lover betrayed on a stormy night.

The blade of betrayal, the kiss of despair,

Left her soul trapped in the cold night air.

Each year on the eve of the autumn’s wane,

She calls out softly in whispered pain.

“Who will find the truth I hold?

Who will free my spirit cold?”

The daring venture to solve her plea,

But none return from the cursed tree.

Its roots, they say, bind secrets tight,

Feeding the fog that veils the night.

Will you, brave wanderer, dare to tread,

To unravel the tale of the haunted dead?

The answer lies where the willows bow,

In the depths of the fog—go now.

But beware, for the price is steep,

And the truth may haunt your soul’s deep keep.