From the magical Forest The Backward-Flowing Waterfa

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Tucked between two rolling hills, where the wind hesitates and the moss lies on stones like forgotten velvet, there is a place that flows against everything known. The waterfall that no one seeks because no one ever expects it – and yet everyone who sees it stops. It doesn't flow downward, but rises upward – silvery, quiet, with a dignity as if reversing time. The water rises from the dark pool, forming drops that recombine into lines, into threads that glide over stones, against gravity, against the obvious. Silently, it travels up a stone wall, dances over mosses, kisses lichens, and floats in small arcs into the sky, as if trying to return to an invisible source. When the light of the setting sun falls on the drops, they appear like small glass fish swimming in an invisible current. No one knows how this waterfall was formed. Some say a child wished for it when they were sad because everything was passing too quickly. Others tell of an old watchmaker who doubted the flow of time and planted a tear in the mountain. Still others swear that deep in the rock lies a heart of glass, calling every drop that has ever fallen. There is also the story of a traveler who claimed the waterfall was the breath of a sleeping giant who dreams the world would never come true. Whatever the truth, the waterfall flows backward – and with it the thoughts of those who stand before it. Those who stay there long enough begin to feel changes within themselves. Questions that were as solid as stone become soft as sand. Memories arise, not as a burden, but as light, warm and transparent like amber. You can stand at the foot of the waterfall and find yourself again – not as you became, but as you were meant to be. Some report that as they walked away, they suddenly wore a long-forgotten smile on their lips, without knowing why. Others swear they have found an answer to a question they never dared to ask. The sound of the rising water is not like rushing, but like flashbacks. Like pages that turn by themselves. Like songs that are even more comforting when sung backward. Some nights it sounds almost like a distant melody you know from dreams, and you wonder if someone else somewhere is hearing the same song. On windless evenings you can think you see in the water the reflections of things long gone—a smiling face, a waving hand, a path you never walked. An old man comes often. He wears a shawl scented with lavender and murmurs soft stories that only the water understands. He believes that each pair of drops flowing backward was a decision to be revisited—without judgment, without haste. Sometimes he stays until the morning mist rises from the hills, and then leaves with an expression as if he had found something that wasn't lost, but was simply waiting.