Such a world feels like a poem yet to be spoken, a quiet story that unfurls only when the moon is high and the river listens. I imagine a verse that begins with the first silver line shimmering upon the water, then bends into a rhyme that sings of the night’s soft breath. Perhaps you could let each curve of the river be a stanza, and the moonlight the ink that writes it, flowing like a lullaby. What kind of tale would you want to tell with those silver currents?