A lone willow bends by the silent river, its branches tracing secrets on the water’s surface. An old fisherman rows slowly, his boat gliding through the mist like a ghost. He casts his net not for fish, but for forgotten dreams sunk in the depths. Children once played here, their laughter echoing now only in the rustle of leaves. The willow remembers—each whisper a story, each ripple a memory. Time flows onward, yet some things remain: the gentle curve of the bank, the moon’s pale reflection,...
