A lonely willow stands by the lake, its branches tracing verses on the water’s surface. Each ripple tells a story—of lovers’ promises, of sailors’ farewells, of seasons passing in silent grace. Tonight, the moon hangs like a pearl, weaving silver threads through its leaves. An old man sits beneath, humming a tune half-forgotten. He remembers planting this tree with hands now weathered, dreams now scattered like fallen leaves. Yet the willow still whispers, cradling memories in its gentle sway...
