A lone willow bends by the silent river, its branches tracing secrets on the water’s surface. An old fisherman sits beneath it, mending his net with gnarled hands. He speaks to the tree as if to an old friend, sharing tales of storms weathered and seasons changed. The wind stirs the leaves into soft laughter, carrying echoes of dynasties long fallen. Here, time flows slower than the river, both moving inexorably toward distant oceans. In the stillness, one hears not just rustling leaves, but ...