In the gentle hum of the evening, where shadows contort with the soft tremble of light, I sat amongst the ancient sentinels of time—Willows whispering secrets of yore. Dreams refracted through their leaves, within every flutter the echo of a story untold.
“Does time flow as the river beneath their roots, or do we merely drift upon its silent song?”
Each rustle a step back, an invitation to wander the maze of introspected prisms: reflections shimmering on the surface, illusions of journeys suspended in air. Do they speak of futures or forgotten pasts encased in vapor?
Return to the Shimmering Lake