By March, the ice began to break along the edge of Willow Creek. The river, once locked beneath winter’s glass, moved again—slowly, uncertainly, as if testing its own memory.  

Lila stood by the bridge with a sketchbook under her arm. The air still carried a chill, but the light had changed; it was softer now, more forgiving. The town smelled of thawing soil and smoke from chimneys that hadn’t quite given up their warmth.  

She drew the water as it moved, tracing the lines where ice met current. Each sketch felt like a small confession, something that had waited all winter to be said.  

A week later, Jake came home for spring break. He brought with him a letter—creased, rain-spotted, and thin from travel.  

“It came to the dorm by mistake,” he said, handing it to her. “No return address, but I figured you’d know who it’s from.”  

Her name was written in the corner, the same careful hand she remembered. Inside was a single sheet of paper.  

> “I might come back for a few days. I’d like to see the old places again.  

>  —N.”  

She read it twice, then folded it back the way it had come.  

Jake watched her quietly. “You okay?”  

“Yeah,” she said, though her pulse betrayed her.  

That evening, she went for a walk through town. The streets were damp, the air heavy with the scent of cedar and rain. At the art store on Main Street, she paused by the window; her reflection looked older somehow, steadier.  

When she went inside, the owner smiled. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”  

“I’ve been…drawing at home.”  

“Good. Sometimes that’s where the real work happens.”  

She bought new brushes, then went home and stayed up late cleaning them, one by one, as if preparing for something she couldn’t yet name.  

Days passed. The letter stayed folded on her desk, like a promise that didn’t want to be touched.  

Noah’s words lingered in her mind—*I might come back.*  

She tried to imagine what that would look like. The truck, the river, the sound of footsteps on the porch.  

Every version felt real enough to hurt.  

In the city, Noah stood on the train platform, ticket in hand. He wasn’t sure what he was going back to—maybe just a place that still held his name.  

The last few months had blurred into sound and distance: studio lights, late nights, the smell of rain on concrete. Yet beneath it all was that same melody he’d recorded in winter, the one that refused to end.  

He boarded the train before he could change his mind.  

The ride took hours, the landscape shifting from gray towers to open fields, from noise to quiet. He dozed against the window, dreaming of water breaking free from ice.  

When he woke, the sky outside was pale blue, streaked with thin clouds. He could almost smell the pines again.  

Willow Creek appeared like a memory he’d never fully left behind.  

The train slowed, then stopped. The air was colder than he remembered, but it felt like home.  

He walked the familiar road into town. The hardware store still stood with its faded sign, the same creak in the door as he passed. Down the street, the blue truck—Jake’s now—was parked under the oak tree.  

He smiled. Some things stayed. Some didn’t have to.  

At the Bennett house, the porch light was on. He hesitated before knocking, listening to the faint sound of wind chimes.  

The door opened before he could speak.  

Lila stood there, hair pulled back, eyes wide but calm. For a moment, neither of them moved.  

“Hey,” he said, almost a whisper.  

“Hi,” she replied.  

“You got my letter?”  

“I did.”  

Silence filled the space between them, gentle but full.  

“Can I come in?”  

“Yeah.”  

The house smelled the same—coffee, paint, rain. On the table, her sketchbook lay open to a half-finished drawing: the bridge, the river, the first signs of spring.  

He looked at it and smiled. “You never stopped.”  

“Did you think I would?”  

“No,” he said softly. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”  

They sat by the window as the light faded. Outside, the last of the snow melted into the earth, and the river kept moving.  

Lila turned a page in her sketchbook and handed it to him.  

“I started something new,” she said.  

“What is it?”  

“Not sure yet. Maybe you’ll help me figure it out.”  

He laughed quietly. “That’s fair.”  

They didn’t talk about the letters, or the tapes, or the months between. Some things didn’t need to be translated back into words.  

As dusk settled over Willow Creek, a breeze passed through the open window, carrying the scent of wet earth and cedar.  

For the first time in a long while, neither of them felt like they were waiting for anything.  

Outside, the river kept moving.