Even the trees seem to be reaching for the sun's warmth.

The skeletal trees scattered across the lake stood like sentinels of time, their bare branches reaching skyward as if yearning for something lost. The sun’s reflection shimmered on the surface like liquid gold, rippling gently with the breeze. Each step along the shore felt deliberate, as though I were walking through a painting too perfect to disturb. The air was heavy with silence—no birdsong or rustling leaves—just the faint sound of water meeting land. I found myself wondering about these drowned trees and what they might have witnessed before their roots were claimed by the lake. It was a quiet kind of beauty, one that didn’t demand attention but held it nonetheless.