It’s like a forest where every tree has a story to tell.

The silence here felt different. It wasn’t the quiet of an empty room but one that carried weight, like the air itself was holding its breath. The Aboriginal Memorial stretched before me—a forest of painted hollow logs standing tall on undulating platforms. Each one bore its own patterns and colors, yet together they formed a chorus of memory and loss. I found myself weaving through them as though walking through a sacred grove. The polished wooden floor beneath my feet glinted faintly under the soft lighting, and I wondered how many stories these logs held—how many voices were silenced yet still spoke through this art. A few visitors lingered nearby, their faces contemplative but distant. I caught myself tracing the lines on one log with my eyes, trying to imagine the hand that painted it. The room felt alive despite its stillness.