A cave

A cave is the earth holding its breath.
Step inside and the world changes immediately—light thins, sounds soften, and time seems to slow down. The walls are cool and damp, shaped not by tools or hands but by patience: water dripping for thousands of years, carving stone one drop at a time. Stalactites hang like frozen icicles from the ceiling, while stalagmites rise from the floor, quietly inching toward each other in the dark.
Caves feel ancient because they are. They remember things the surface has forgotten—shifting continents, vanished rivers, animals that once slept in their shadows. Some caves protect glittering crystals, others hide underground lakes so still they look like mirrors. Many have been shelters, temples, hiding places, and homes, reminding us that humans have always been drawn to places that feel mysterious and safe at the same time.
Being in a cave is humbling. It’s a reminder that the planet is alive, always working, always shaping itself—long before us, and long after we’re gone.