The path to the river had changed. The rain had carved new lines into the earth, shallow and shining, leading her through grass that still bent with yesterday’s weight.  

Lila walked slowly, the sketchbook pressed under her arm. The morning air was cool and full of sound—the kind that wasn’t music but almost was. The river made it, a low, constant murmur that threaded through the trees.  

She stopped when she reached the clearing. The bridge stood ahead, washed clean, its stones dark with water. Beneath it, the river moved with the patience of something that had been talking all night.  

For a long moment she didn’t move.  

Then she sat on the bank, knees pulled close, sketchbook resting against her legs. The ground was damp; the air smelled of silt and green.  

She opened the book. The last drawing stared back—road, water, distance. She turned the page and touched the blank sheet.  

“Alright,” she said softly. “I’m listening.”  

The sound of the river deepened, like an answer.  

She began to draw, not the bridge itself but the ripples beneath it—the small distortions where current met stone. The pencil moved with its own rhythm, guided by the sound more than by her eyes.  

When she looked up, the light had shifted. The water reflected the sky in fragments, each piece its own color.  

A breeze moved through the reeds, scattering seed and shadow. Somewhere far down the bank, a bird rose suddenly, its wings flashing white before vanishing into the trees.  

Lila set the pencil down. “You never stop, do you?”  

The water caught the light, made it tremble.  

She smiled faintly. “Neither did I.”  

She leaned back on her hands, closing her eyes. The hum of the river filled her ears. It didn’t sound like forgetting; it sounded like keeping.  

From the far side of the bridge came footsteps—slow, hesitant, breaking twigs. She turned her head but didn’t stand.  

A figure appeared on the path. It wasn’t Noah; she knew that before she could even see the face. It was Jake.  

He raised a hand. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”  

“You always do.”  

“Habit.”  

“Dangerous one.”  

He smiled, stepping closer. “Mom would’ve said the same.”  

“She said a lot of things.”  

“Most of them true.”  

He sat beside her, the grass folding under his weight. They watched the river together, neither speaking.  

After a while he asked, “You read it?”  

She nodded. “This morning.”  

“What did it say?”  

“Goodbye. Or maybe forgiveness.”  

Jake looked out across the water. “Same thing, sometimes.”  

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain returning.  

Lila said, “Do you ever think he’ll come back?”  

Jake thought before answering. “People like him always do. The question is whether we’re still here when they do.”  

She smiled at that. “I will be.”  

He glanced at the sketchbook. “Drawing again?”  

“Trying.”  

“Can I see?”  

She shook her head. “Not yet.”  

He nodded, understanding.  

The sky above them dimmed slightly, the color of slate and light. The river’s voice grew louder, closer, as if it had moved to fill the space between their words.  

Jake said, “It’s saying something.”  

“What?”  

“Listen.”  

They did.  

The sound wasn’t words. It was everything that refused to be one—movement, breath, memory.  

Lila whispered, “I think it remembers more than we do.”  

Jake smiled. “Then let it speak.”  

And for the first time since he’d gone, she didn’t feel like answering.  

The afternoon deepened into a kind of gold that felt both warm and distant. The river kept speaking in its low rhythm, carrying the sound farther than it should have.  

Jake stood and brushed the grass from his hands. “I should head back before it rains again.”  

Lila nodded. “Tell Mom I’ll come by later.”  

“She’ll pretend not to wait.”  

“She’s good at that.”  

He smiled, looked once more toward the bridge, then walked the path uphill until the trees folded around him.  

When he was gone, the quiet returned, heavier than before. Lila stayed seated, eyes tracing the ripples that gathered at the bank. Each movement made and unmade itself, as if time had decided to breathe.  

A shadow passed over the water. Clouds moved in from the west, slow and deliberate. She closed her sketchbook, tied the ribbon around it, and set it on the grass beside her.  

“You never stop talking, do you?” she said to the river. “Even when no one listens.”  

The water answered in the only language it had—movement, sound, reflection.  

She picked up a small stone, turned it in her hand. It was smooth, cold. She threw it, and it skipped once, twice, then vanished. The rings widened, fading into the current.  

For a while, she just watched them fade.  

Then she rose, brushed the damp from her skirt, and crossed the bridge. The boards creaked under her weight, the sound soft but sure. In the middle, she stopped.  

From there, she could see both sides—the bend where she’d arrived and the path he’d taken away. The distance didn’t look large, but it felt endless.  

She leaned on the rail, fingers tracing the grooves in the wood. A faint carving caught her eye: two initials, nearly worn away. L & N. She smiled, small and real.  

Rain began, light as dust. The drops touched the surface of the river, breaking the stillness into a hundred moving circles.  

She whispered, “I hear you.”  

The wind carried the words outward, over the water, where they disappeared into sound.  

When she turned to leave, the light had changed again—softer, steadier. The river no longer murmured; it breathed.  

By the time she reached the far bank, her hair was damp, her heart quiet.  

Behind her, the bridge stood dark against the pale sky, waiting for nothing, holding everything.  

She walked the rest of the way home with the sound of the river following her—a low, patient breath that seemed to echo inside the walls when she opened the door.  

The house smelled faintly of rain and paper. The lamp still burned low on her desk, the light soft as memory. She set the sketchbook down, listened once more to the hush outside, and sat.  

She didn’t mean to write. Only to pick up the pen.  

But the words began anyway.  

*Dear you,*