Once upon a time, in the quiet town of Yingde, China, nestled among lush hills and ancient forests, there flowed a river named the Beijiang. Its waters whispered secrets to the bamboo groves, and its banks cradled the dreams of those who wandered along its course.

On the other side of the world, in the heart of Texas, the San Jacinto River meandered through sun-kissed plains and tall grasses. It carried stories of cowboys and wildflowers, of storms and sunsets. The San Jacinto was a river with a soul, yearning for connection.

But it was in the realm of dreams that these two rivers found each other. A lonely orphaned boy, with eyes like the morning mist, slept one fateful night. His name was Oliver, but in his dreams, he was Awoo—a name whispered by the wind itself.

In that ephemeral world, the Beijiang and the San Jacinto converged. Their waters danced together, swirling in a celestial waltz. And there, on the riverbanks, stood two lovers: Coco and Valvert. Coco’s laughter was like the tinkling of wind chimes, and Valvert’s eyes held the wisdom of ancient oaks.

They told Awoo their story—their love story that spanned centuries. Coco, a painter with a heart as vast as the Beijiang, had met Valvert, a wandering poet, on a misty morning. Their eyes locked across a crowded tea house, and time itself paused. They sipped jasmine tea, their fingers brushing against porcelain cups, and vowed to remain faithful to each other for all eternity.

Through dynasties and revolutions, wars and peace, Coco and Valvert held hands along the riverbanks for thousands of years. They watched butterflies flit between lotus blooms, their love as delicate and enduring as the fragile wings. They whispered poems to the moon, and the stars listened, weaving their verses into constellations.

When Oliver woke from his dream, tears clung to his lashes. He drew Coco and Valvert—their faces etched in charcoal and longing. The boy hung the sketch on his orphanage wall, a beacon of love in a world that had forgotten him. People asked about his parents, but Oliver only smiled and pointed to the lovers in the picture. “They’re my dream parents,” he’d say.

Years passed, and Oliver grew into an old man. His heart carried the weight of two rivers—the Beijiang and the San Jacinto. He decided to embark on a pilgrimage. To China, he traveled, collecting water from the Beijiang’s source. To Texas, he journeyed, gathering the essence of the San Jacinto. He mixed them together, their currents merging like lost souls finding home.

In his humble cabin overlooking a distant mountain range, Oliver boiled the river blend. The steam curled around him, carrying whispers of Coco’s laughter and Valvert’s poetry. He poured the tea into a delicate cup—the same kind they had used in their dream. As he sipped, memories flooded back—the taste of jasmine, the warmth of shared secrets, the promise of forever.

And so, in that quiet room, Oliver closed his eyes. The rivers flowed within him, and he rocked in his creaking chair. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden hues on the walls adorned with Coco and Valvert’s portrait. Oliver’s breaths slowed, and he felt their presence—the lovers who had adopted him in dreams.

With a final sip, Oliver whispered, “Thank you, my dream parents.” And as the stars blinked into existence, he joined them—Coco and Valvert—on the banks of eternity, sipping green tea made from memories, love, and the confluence of two rivers.