Deep in a forest where trees rise like the pillars of a forgotten cathedral, where sunlight barely pierces through in timid golden flashes, lies a silent lake. Its waters, dark and mysterious, scarcely reflect the sky, as if jealously guarding their secrets. But on its surface, water lilies dance.
 
They are there, motionless yet alive, their round green leaves floating with quiet grace. Each water lily is a tiny island, a haven for dragonflies’ dreams and frogs’ confessions. Their flowers, white or pink, open in the morning like hands reaching for the sky, then gently close at dusk, carrying away the last rays of light.
 
When the wind dares to venture here, it caresses their petals and makes the water shiver. Concentric circles are born, spread, and vanish, like memories fading away. Sometimes, a bolder breeze lifts a leaf, revealing an underwater world where fish glide between the stems, indifferent to the passing of time.
 
No one ever comes to disturb this place. Humans have forgotten the path, and the forest creatures prefer more accessible clearings. Only an old heron, solitary and wise, sometimes stands at the water’s edge, watching the water lilies with infinite patience. He knows that each flower is a story, each leaf a poem written by nature.
 
And when night falls, the water lilies fall asleep, lulled by the song of crickets and the whisper of leaves. The lake becomes a mirror once more, this time reflecting the stars, as if to remind us that even in the deepest darkness, there is always a glimmer of hope.