A lonely willow stands by the lake, its branches tracing verses on the water’s surface. Each ripple carries fragments of forgotten poetry, weaving tales of moonlit rendezvous and autumn’s golden farewell. Travelers often pause here, mistaking the rustling leaves for a distant song. Some leave behind whispered secrets, which the tree swallows into its ancient bark. At dawn, dewdrops form like pearls upon its leaves—each one holding a tiny reflection of the sky. Legends say those who listen clo...