A lone willow bends by the silent river, its branches tracing secrets on the water’s surface. An old fisherman rows his boat slowly, humming a tune forgotten by time. He casts his net not for fish, but for memories lost beneath the waves. Moonlight dances on the ripples as he pulls up a glimmering stone—smooth and cold. It whispers of ancient dynasties, of poets who drank wine under this very tree. He smiles, pocketing the stone as a keepsake. Some truths are too fragile for words, carried on...
