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, weaving tales of distant mountains and forgotten storms. Children sometimes come to listen, their laughter blending with the le...
