If money were just withered leaves carried by the wind

If money were just withered leaves carried by the wind, I would open a small flower shop on a forgotten street, where days drift by slowly, and the air smells of fresh, gentle rain, and the wind always carries the scent of clear mornings. I would live alone in an old cottage, deep in the mountains, where the trees are tall and the clouds descend slowly, and the rest of the world becomes a distant echo, a whisper lost in memories. There would be no one else, no people, no noise, just me and the silence I’ve always sought, a silence that embraces the soul like a velvet cloak. I wouldn’t truly be alone, for my silent friends would keep me company, gentle cows and horses running free through the fields, sleepy cats curled up in my lap, birds singing symphonies of freedom. My days would be soft and simple, waking up in the golden light of the sun, preparing my tea or coffee in my favorite mug, reading sweet stories under warm blankets, writing secret verses hidden in drawers. I’d spend the afternoons gathering flowers, baking chocolate or vanilla cakes, cooking dishes to my heart’s content, walking the horses and reading books among the trees. I’d press flowers in old books, listening to the wind whispering through the leaves, writing poems and stories just for myself, knowing no one will call, no one will come. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.