The late afternoon exhales, and every leaf drifts like a whispered memory. Through the wooden frame of a teahouse, we witness autumn not as a season, but a ceremony. The golden foliage tumbles, not hurriedly, but with reverence—each one bowing mid-air, offering itself to the still pond below. In the distance, a lone pavilion stands like an old secret keeper, half in sun, half in shadow—waiting, always waiting.
This is not just a scene. It is a sigh. A lullaby. A breath between stories.
The late afternoon exhales, and every leaf drifts like a whispered memory. Through the wooden frame of a teahouse, we witness autumn not as a season, but a ceremony. The golden foliage tumbles, not hurriedly, but with reverence—each one bowing mid-air, offering itself to the still pond below. In the distance, a lone pavilion stands like an old secret keeper, half in sun, half in shadow—waiting, always waiting.
This is not just a scene. It is a sigh. A lullaby. A breath between stories.
