A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, humming ancient tales under the moonlit sky. For centuries, it has witnessed seasons change—blossoms blooming in spring, fireflies dancing in summer, leaves gilding in autumn, and frost painting silence in winter. Travelers often pause by its banks to hear the water’s soft murmur, which some say carries fragments of forgotten poetry. One night, a lone poet listened closely and heard verses woven from starlight and dreams. He scribbled them on...
