The River

It begins with a whisper — a thread of water winding through the forest like a breath too soft to name. Above, the morning light pours through the canopy in golden beams, not harsh, but holy, like blessings falling on the world below. Each ray touches the leaves with reverence, each stone kissed by centuries of flow. The river moves, not in haste, but with purpose — steady, eternal, knowing. It has no need to rush; it has seen time itself unfold in layers of light and moss. This is not just a place, but a rhythm, a presence — where silence speaks, and movement becomes memory. To stand by this water is to remember something ancient. Not with words, but with the stillness in your chest, and the echo of wonder that stirs when the world forgets to be loud.