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 of seasons passed—of spring blossoms carried away by the wind, summer droughts that cracked the earth, and autumn moons that turned the reeds to silver. The willow answers in rustles, telling tales of drowned cities and forgotten lovers’ vows sealed in its bark. Children sometimes come to listen, but hear only leaves. At dusk, the fisherman leaves, and the willow continues its murmuring, weaving history into the current until the stars reflect like scattered pearls on the dark water. Some truths are only shared between patience and time.