There are no voices, but you hear a song that hums through the walls and up through the ceiling.  It sways through the garden and flows through the trees.  Leading you right down to the road, then straight out of town.  You shouldn’t go too far down the road, but the curious always find a way.  The street will be cold, and the wind will be chilling however that never quite stops the brave.  But the one thing for sure that if you should continue, you will find yourself astray.  Through the white of the trees, the song will drift away, the breeze will die down.  For the tree at the top of the hill

Never makes a sound