"Beyond the noise of the clamorous world, beyond the fog of a reality bustling with commotion, across the ocean of time that often feels so heavy, lies a land that can only be found by those who still possess clear eyes of the heart. There, beneath a sky perpetually painted with golden twilight, laughter never truly fades. It merely rolls like gentle waves, sweeping over green hills and whispering through the leaves.
"Everything there lives in magical harmony. The fruits on the trees are not only brightly colored but can also speak, sharing sweet tales of the sun that bathed them or the birds that whistled in the morning. The red apple would share a crisp joke, the yellow orange would tell of its adventure from bud to fruit, and the purple grapes would sing cheerful melodies in clusters.
"Even more wondrous are the trees, which grow not from ordinary soil, but from pure light. Their roots are woven from cool, soft moonlight, their trunks are pillars of warm sunlight, and their branches stretch out like dancing auroras. Their leaves are eternal fireflies, illuminating the paths paved with glowing pebbles.
"In that world, the air feels like a warm embrace. The rivers flow with clear water that tastes like newborn hope. The stones on the riverbank, if listened to closely, beat rhythmically like joyful hearts. Even the blowing wind seems to carry sweet murmurs of beautiful memories gathered from all corners of the universe.
"It is said this land is the hidden dream of every soul—a place where all burdens become light, all wounds find their salve, and even the hardest heart will melt into tenderness. This is the land where everyone will find their own happiness, where there is no room for lingering sorrow, for only pure joy is permitted to dwell and take root.
"And whoever manages to reach it, even if only in a dream, will awaken with a smile etched upon their lips and a glimmer of that magical land, eternally residing in their hearts.
"That is the land of dreams, a place where weary souls find their final harbor. That land is called... the Land of Happiness."
With a profound smile, an elderly man slowly closed the book on his lap. Its cover was worn yet full of memories, depicting a girl reaching her hands toward the night sky, surrounded by firefly lights that seemed to dance in a ritual. Those tiny rays were like faint singers from the realm of dreams, dancing between the girl's fingers, as if writing a wordless poem upon the dark canvas of the sky.
The man... or more affectionately called Grandfather, gazed out the window. His hair was completely white, almost bald, leaving a smooth crown of wisdom.
He was leaning peacefully against the wall of his small house, made of old timbers that had perhaps told more stories than humans. Upon his warm lap lay a little girl with long, pale golden hair flowing like the first sunlight of spring. It was soft, warm, and promising life. Her hair color was like young leaves just daring to peek from the tips of branches after a long slumber.
The little girl had fallen asleep, her breathing steady and peaceful. Behind her closed eyelids lay pupils the same color as her hair: a clear, yellowish-green, like a forest pond reflecting spring light. Her eyes were like windows to a world where plants were beginning to crawl out after being long buried by winter's snow.
Grandfather's wooden house stood sturdy at the edge of the forest, solitary. There were no neighbors around, only tall pine trees, grasses swaying to the rhythm of the wind, and the vast sky as its roof. Yet, this solitude was not loneliness. It was an invaluable luxury.
Here, Grandfather could hear the sound of birds chirping to each other from branch to branch, not the roar of engines or car horns blaring in frustration from traffic jams. As an elderly man, he only desired tranquility.
Moreover, there were sounds unheard in the city—the sounds of nature. In the forest, he could hear the whispers of the wind caressing the leaves, the distant babble of a small stream, and sometimes, faint wolf howls from the heart of the forest, all weaving a symphony far sweeter than any sound in the city.
In that vibrant silence, under the flickering light of an oil lamp, Grandfather gazed at the face of the deeply sleeping little girl. The fairytale book beside him wasn't finished; he stopped because the little girl—his reason for reading—had already fallen asleep.
"Hehe, always works," Grandfather's murmur sounded husky and warm, like the rubbing of two old pieces of wood. His voice filled the small space fragrant with the scent of pinewood and old books. "With just a page or two, your eyelids grow heavy, and the world of dreams greets you. It confuses me, child," Grandfather paused as he gently stroked the pale golden hair with his wrinkled hands. "Are you a real human, or perhaps a creature of dreams lost in the real world? A being whose body is woven from morning dew and whose breath is a gentle breeze?"
The little girl only responded with deep breaths, immersed in a subconscious realm where the stories from the first pages might have transformed into adventures entirely her own. Grandfather's smile widened, full of love and a little awe at this simple wonder. He shifted his gaze from his granddaughter's innocent face to the open wooden window.
Outside, the day had crept toward dusk. The sky looked as if dipped in molten liquid gold and honey. The slanting rays of the afternoon sun swept the forest floor, transforming the trees into majestic silhouettes and bringing to life the dust particles in the air, making them dance like specks of gold. Hundreds of fireflies began to emit their enchantingly beautiful light.
Then, from behind the bushes and grasses, the crickets' songs emerged. Their sound trembled, echoed, spreading from one point to another, until finally it filled the entire forest, like a chain of invisible bells. To many ears in the city, that sound might be considered mere noise, a disturbance to silence. But to Grandfather's ears, which had long been faithful listeners to the earth, that sound was the purest music.
He listened with half-closed eyes, as if he could see every vibration of that sound. "Listen to that," Grandfather shifted his gaze to his granddaughter while gently stroking her head, whispering to the sleeping little girl though he knew she couldn't hear. "Their sound is sincere, child. No pretense. They don't sing to please anyone, nor do they lie. They merely declare their existence, celebrate life, and call to others. That is the song of truth. That is the most honest sound."