In the West, trees whisper to poets and dreamers. Daphne became a laurel to escape Apollo's pursuit; dryads slept within oaks, shy and eternal.
But in the East, the trees remember longer—they love, they grieve, they awaken.
There once stood a willow beside a quiet river in Jiangnan, its branches trailing across the current like silk threads combing through glass. Each spring, a young scholar named Wen would pass beneath its shade, reciting verses and sketching the trembling leaves that danced with the wind. He said the tree had eyes, that it listened when no one else would.
Years passed. Wen went away to seek fortune in the capital, promising to return before the willow shed its leaves again. But the world, as it always does, forgot its promises.
Seasons turned. The river swelled and receded. Storms tore roofs from the nearby village, yet the willow still stood, waiting. One night, as thunder rolled across the heavens, lightning struck the riverbank. When the storm cleared, the tree no longer swayed—it breathed.
From its trunk stepped a woman robed in pale green, her hair long as falling rain, her eyes glimmering with sorrow and springlight. She wandered the shore, calling softly for the scholar who had once spoken to her. Her voice rippled through the mist, and every droplet of dew shivered in answer.
Years later, Wen—now old, weary, and forgotten by fortune—returned at last. He found only the river, the stump, and a single branch still sprouting tender buds. As he touched it, the wind rose, and in the reflection of the water he saw her—smiling, luminous, her form dissolving into petals and rain.
He fell to his knees, whispering apologies that drifted away like smoke. The willow's leaves brushed against his hair, gentle as forgiveness.
Since then, travelers who rest beneath a willow's shade on moonlit nights sometimes hear a sigh in the branches—a voice half human, half wind—asking softly, "Did he return?"
They say the Willow Spirit still waits by the river, where memory lingers longer than life itself.