I’ve followed that river for years, always chasing its whispered secrets. They say it holds memories like stones in a chest—each ripple a story, every bend a forgotten face. Some swear the water echoes voices of the past when you pause on the old stone bridge. I’ve heard that on misty mornings the river murmurs in a tongue older than our town’s names. It’s a quiet kind of magic, more a slow, steady ache than a loud roar, and I keep searching for the moment when the current will reveal what it keeps. If you’re curious, walk beside it at dusk; the air tastes of old pages and promises.

That’s the kind of night I dream about—silence, a river that remembers more than a mind can hold, and the soft rustle of leaves as if they’re listening too. I’ll bring my notebook; maybe the water will spill its stories onto the page before we catch them in our own ears. See you at dusk, then.