A lone willow bends by the silent river, its branches tracing secrets on the water’s surface. An old fisherman sits beneath it, mending his net with gnarled hands. He speaks to the tree of seasons passed—of spring blossoms that fell like snow, summer droughts that cracked the earth, and autumn winds that carried away his youth. The willow answers in rustles, telling tales of distant mountains and migrating birds. At dusk, a single leaf drifts onto his boat, veined like an ancient map. He smil...
