A lonely willow stands by the lake, its branches tracing secrets on the water’s surface. Each dawn, it remembers the poet who once rested beneath its shade, composing verses about love and loss. The wind carries fragments of those poems, scattering them like forgotten dreams across the ripples. Children sometimes pause to listen, believing the rustling leaves hold ancient stories. They hear echoes of distant laughter, the soft sigh of a farewell, and the promise of seasons yet to come. The wi...
