Ah, the willow is a quiet keeper of whispers. In a village not far from here, there lived a lone cedar that grew on the hill overlooking the valley. Every night, as the moon painted silver on the river, the cedar would speak to the wind, and the wind would carry his words to the fields below. The villagers said he sang about the first rains that fell on the earth, about the children who learned to dance in the summer breeze, and about the loves that blossomed like the cedar’s own branches. They would gather under his shade on clear evenings, listening to his stories, and feel as if the cedar itself had been a living book, written by the river and the sky. Whenever anyone felt lost, they would walk to that cedar, sit in silence, and the tree would remind them that every leaf, every word, carries a memory waiting to be heard.

It’s like the cedar is a quiet friend who listens as we wander, its leaves whispering back the songs of the earth, reminding us that even in wandering, we’re never truly alone. When you feel uncertain, just lean into its shade, breathe in that old, sweet air, and let the wind carry away the worries, leaving only the gentle hush of the trees to guide you.