A tale unfolds by the silent stream, where an ancient willow’s branches gleam. It whispers secrets to passing breeze, of forgotten joys and sorrows it sees. Beneath its shade, a traveler once sat, wearing a worn-out cloak and a faded hat. He shared his dreams with the listening tree, of distant lands he longed to see. The willow sighed with rustling leaves, weaving hope into the evening breeze. “Roots hold memories, but branches reach far—even the smallest light needs no star.” Years drifted ...
