A lone willow bends by the silent river, its branches tracing secrets on the water’s surface. An old fisherman rows slowly, his boat gliding through the mist like a ghost. He casts his net not for fish, but for forgotten dreams sunk deep below. Children once played here, their laughter echoing where now only ripples remain. The willow remembers—each leaf a whispered tale of summers past. Time flows onward, yet the tree stands rooted in memory, guardian of stories untold. Evening descends, pai...
