A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, humming an ancient tune only the old pines understand. Two children once followed its silver path, chasing fallen blossoms in the spring. They built tiny boats from oak leaves, launching dreams downstream where dragonflies danced. Years later, one returned alone, finding the brook still whispering—not of loss, but of continuity. Its waters had carved new curves, yet the song remained: patient, persistent, flowing toward horizons unseen. The c...
