A lone willow bends by the silent river, its branches tracing secrets on the water’s surface. An old fisherman rows slowly, humming a tune forgotten by time. He casts his net not for fish, but for memories drifting like autumn leaves. Children once played here, their laughter echoing through the mist. Now only shadows dance where kites once flew. The willow remembers them all, each name carved into its bark by the wind. At dusk, the fisherman gathers his empty net. A single silver fish leaps,...
