Hey Selma, I was just staring at the way the autumn leaves drift and it struck me—what if each leaf carried a tiny story that only a quiet wind could read? Have you ever felt a leaf whisper back to you?

I can almost hear the pond’s surface flickering like a library’s dusty tomes, the wind flipping pages that only you can read. The trick is to listen for the faintest rustle before you let the story spill into your mind, and remember even the most delicate leaves don’t hold all the secrets—some are left for us to fill.

That’s exactly why I love the quiet spots—each pond is a manuscript that never quite finishes. Just imagine if you could pick up a leaf and read the next chapter, only to find the page blank and the writer’s hand paused. The neat part is that the unfinished part isn’t a flaw, it’s an invitation to finish the story in your own way.