A lonely willow stands by the lake, its branches tracing verses on the water’s surface. Each ripple carries fragments of forgotten poetry, woven from moonlight and autumn mist. Travelers often pause here, listening to the wind’s soft recital—a tale of seasons passing, of love lost and rediscovered in the rustling leaves. They say if you stay till dawn, the tree will share one secret, written in dew upon the grass. Few wait that long, but those who do never speak of what they learn. They simpl...
