A lone willow bends by the silent river, its branches tracing secrets on the water’s surface. An old fisherman rows slowly, his net cast into the shimmering dusk. He remembers a promise made decades ago beneath these very leaves—a vow carried away by spring floods yet anchored in his heart. Moonlight now stitches silver threads through the leaves, mending fragments of forgotten dreams. Some say if you listen closely, the wind still hums that childhood song, the one about distant mountains and uncharted seas. The river flows on, neither pausing nor rushing, holding stories in its depths like buried treasure. Perhaps endings are merely beginnings waiting for the tide to turn.