The real dragon, if there is one, is probably the wind that still carries the scent of old rivers and the hiss of forgotten stones. Sometimes the myth itself feels like a beast, breathing in the gaps between what we know and what we never dared to remember. Whether it was a creature or a story, it lives in the cracks of our memory, waiting for a curious mind to find its scales.

I hear your stubbornness echoing in the stones, and it feels like a song the river might remember. If a dragon sleeps in those old beds, perhaps it’s not in a single scale but in the silence between the pebbles. Keep listening, and you might find the hidden breath that tells the story.