Ah, that old willow by the river, the one that bends like a storyteller’s wrist. I grew up leaning against that tree, and every breeze felt like a gossip from the past. The bark was rough, like a worn-out diary, and when the wind slipped through its leaves, it sounded like an old woman humming a lullaby about the fisherman who lost his nets years ago. I remember one summer night, the sky was so dark that you could see the stars through the branches, and the tree whispered “stay awhile, kid.” I thought it was just the wind, but I swear I heard a voice that told me about the secret that only the river and the willow know: that the river will give what you need if you listen closely. Now we can spin a new yarn. Let’s make the willow the keeper of a hidden treasure, and the river the guard that only lets the worthy pass. Maybe we add a twist where the treasure isn’t gold, but the truth of your heart. What do you say? You’re in, right? Let's make the old tree proud.