A lonely willow stands by the lake, its branches tracing verses on the water’s surface. Each ripple tells a story—of moonlit rendezvous, of forgotten promises carried by the wind. Travelers pause here, drinking from its shade, and leave with whispers tangled in their hair. They say the tree remembers every secret ever confessed beneath its leaves, weaving them into a silent, ever-growing ballad. One day, a poet came and listened until dawn, then carved no words but a single question mark upon...
