A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, humming an ancient tune under the silver moonlight. Its watery fingers trace the roots of old willows, weaving tales of forgotten times. Two fireflies dance above the ripples, their glow painting fleeting constellations on the dark water. An old fisherman once sat here, mending his net with threads of twilight, listening to the whispers of the current. He learned that some stories need no words—the river sings them all. Now the bank remembers...
