A lonely willow stands by the lake’s edge, its branches tracing secrets on the water’s surface. Each dawn, it whispers tales of forgotten travelers who rested beneath its shade. One story tells of a scholar who left a poem carved into its bark, words now buried deep within the growing wood. Another speaks of a nightingale that nested there every spring, singing verses older than the hills. The wind carries these fragments across the water, weaving them into ripples that vanish by noon. Yet th...
