Whispers of the Red Hand
In the quiet forests where the wind carries the stories of old, the elders say… if you listen closely, you will hear the footsteps of the missing.
They are our sisters. Our daughters. Our mothers.
Taken too soon. Forgotten by the world—but never by the land.
Beneath the towering pines, the red handprint stains the earth. Not of defeat, but of defiance. It marks every tree, every stone,
whispering:
“We are still here.”
The four sisters in the circle wore the colors of the earth—gold like the sun, red like the fire, brown like the soil, and green like the rivers.
Their braids carried the prayers of generations.
Their hearts carried the songs of survival.
They stood together beneath the blood-red sky, not as victims—but as warriors.
Each braid a promise.
Each heartbeat a drum.
Each step a rebellion.
And as the sun sets, the mountains echo their voices:
“No More Stolen Sisters.”
We will not forget.
We will not be silent.
We will fight with our stories, our songs, our unity.
The red hand remains—not just as a symbol of pain—but as a warning:
The daughters of this land are protected.
The silence is broken.
