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.

Time flows; the roots dig deeper. Some say if you listen closely at dawn, you can hear it sigh—not in sorrow, but in peace. For even the briefest life leaves echoes in the world.