A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, humming ancient tales under the moon’s soft glow. Two fireflies dance above the water, weaving light into fleeting poems. An old willow dips its branches, listening to the night’s secrets. Some say the brook carries echoes of poets who once lingered here, their words dissolved into liquid silver. A lone traveler pauses, drinking from cupped hands, tasting stories older than the mountains. The water remembers what the land has forgotten. In it...
