The night of the festival arrived like a memory repeating itself. Willow Creek was covered in light—paper lanterns strung between storefronts, bulbs reflected in puddles left by afternoon rain. The air smelled of sugar and pine, damp and electric, the kind of air that made people look up before they spoke.  

Noah Blake stood behind the stage, guitar in hand, feeling the hum of the crowd on the other side of the curtains. Jake was checking the cables, swearing under his breath as he tried to fix the soundboard. The stage lights flickered once, twice, and then steadied into a warm amber glow.  

“You sure about this?” Jake asked without looking up.  

“No,” Noah said.  

Jake grinned. “That’s how you know it matters.”  

Beyond the stage, voices rose and fell in bursts of laughter. The town hadn’t felt this alive in years. For a moment, Noah thought of his mother, of her painting of the river—the one she said always looked different at night. He wondered if she would have stood here too, somewhere in the back, watching him through the lights.  

A stagehand waved. “You’re up next!”  

Noah took a breath, his fingers brushing the smooth curve of the guitar. He had written this song over too many nights, in too many rooms that didn’t feel like home. It wasn’t a love song, not really. It was a remembering song, a way to set something down without letting it go.  

As he stepped into the light, the sound of the crowd swelled—applause, cheers, then a hush as he adjusted the microphone.  

“Evening,” he said softly. His voice barely carried but it didn’t matter.  

He strummed once, twice, then began.  

The melody came slow, a ripple of sound like water meeting stone. His voice followed, uncertain at first, then finding its rhythm.  

> “Some summers don’t end, they just wait in the air.  

>  Some roads don’t turn, they just lead you somewhere you already know.”  

The crowd stilled.  

Under the canopy, Lila stood near the back, sketchbook held close to her chest. She had told herself she wasn’t coming, that it didn’t matter. But something in the air had shifted since he returned—the quiet no longer felt safe, only incomplete.  

She could see him clearly now, framed by the light, hair longer, eyes deeper. The way he leaned into the guitar hadn’t changed; he still listened before he played.  

He looked up halfway through the second verse. Their eyes met, and the noise of the festival disappeared.  

> “And if you ever wonder why I never said goodbye—  

>  It’s because I was still looking for the right way to look at you.”  

The words landed between them like something too fragile to move.  

He ended on a note that lingered, the sound stretching past the applause, into the silence that followed.  

He exhaled, smiled faintly, and stepped away from the microphone. People clapped, shouted his name, but he didn’t hear them. He was already searching the crowd.  

And there she was.  

He walked offstage, guitar still in hand, weaving through the crowd that seemed to open without resistance. When he reached her, the lights flickered again, a breeze carrying the scent of rain and sound of laughter from the square.  

“Hi,” she said.  

“Hey.”  

“You were—”  

“Loud?” he asked, smiling.  

“Honest.”  

They both laughed, the sound awkward and familiar.  

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he said.  

“I didn’t know if you’d sing something I’d recognize.”  

“You did.”  

“I did.”  

Jake’s voice called from the stage, but Noah didn’t turn. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notebook, its pages creased, corners soft from being opened too many times.  

“These are yours,” he said.  

“What do you mean?”  

“They started as mine. But every line in them came from something you said—or didn’t say.”  

He handed it to her. Inside were pages filled with lyrics, fragments of sketches, bits of melody drawn as if they could be seen instead of heard. She turned the pages slowly, fingertips brushing words like *home*, *river*, *light*.  

When she looked up, he was watching her again—steady, unhurried, like he had learned how to see her without flinching.  

Lila took a breath. “You kept them all this time?”  

“Couldn’t throw them away.”  

“Why not?”  

“Because they were never finished without you.”  

She smiled, small and trembling. “You’re still terrible at explanations.”  

“I know.”  

They stood there, quiet while the next act took the stage. A new song started, louder, faster. The crowd cheered, and colored lights swept over them, turning everything briefly gold and then blue again.  

Lila handed him her own sketchbook. “Then I guess this belongs to you too.”  

He hesitated before opening it. Inside were drawings of the town—the bridge, the river, the house on Willow Street. Some were dated years apart but somehow connected, as if time had been painting over itself.  

Near the back, he found one page different from the rest: a window glowing in the dark, two silhouettes facing the same direction, the light between them brighter than around them.  

He traced the edge of the drawing with his thumb. “You still draw the same way.”  

“I still see the same way.”  

“That’s what I missed.”  

“And what’s that?”  

“The way you see things.”  

He closed the sketchbook carefully, like it might break.  

The music faded into another applause, but they didn’t move. Around them, the town felt paused, holding its breath.  

Finally, she said, “You’ll leave again.”  

“Probably.”  

“And come back?”  

“If there’s something to come back to.”  

She smiled. “Then I guess you will.”  

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then he lifted his hand, brushed a strand of hair from her face. She didn’t step back.  

“Lila,” he said quietly.  

“What?”  

“Thank you for not forgetting me.”  

“I tried,” she said, laughing softly. “It didn’t work.”  

He laughed too, a sound of relief more than amusement.  

Above them, a paper lantern drifted loose from its string, floating up, its reflection trembling in the puddles below. He watched it rise until it disappeared into the dark.  

When he looked back, she was still there, her eyes catching the last of the light.  

For the first time in years, he didn’t think about leaving, or staying, or what came next. He just thought about how she was looking at him, and how, after all this time, he had finally learned how to look back.  

The night settled around them—soft, golden, full of unspoken things.  

Somewhere nearby, a child laughed. The sound carried across the square like a promise.  

Noah smiled, the guitar loose in his hands, and said, “Guess some summers never end.”  

Lila tilted her head, smiling back. “Guess they just wait.”  

And as the music started again, they stood there beneath the lights and the drifting lanterns,  

breathing in the same quiet air,  

as the river beyond the town kept on moving—slow, certain, endless.