As night descends, she anticipates lying beneath the stars, feeling the chill of illness seep through her, all the while yearning for the warmth of the impending sunrise to return to the weeping willow. In the embrace of the night, where silence and understanding intertwine, she drifts into a semi-conscious state, gently stroking the leaves as she summons the delicate touch of a love lost to time. Like Slavic Folclore.