The river was louder than usual.
Not roaring. Not violent. Just... louder. As if it had been waiting for someone to finally listen.
Kael heard it before dawn—while the others still slept under their stitched hide shelter. He stepped into the grass barefoot, letting the wet blades cling to his ankles. The stars overhead were dull, half-eaten by fog, but the river ran clear.
And it was speaking.
Not in words. Not in sound.
In rhythm.
---
Kael crouched at the bank and placed his hand on a stone submerged at the edge. The current moved around it—not over, not through, but around, like it was respecting its presence.
He whispered, "What are you trying to say?"
There was no reply. But there was feeling.
A gentle pull in his chest.
A warmth under his ribs.
Something old.
---
Aila found him hours later, still sitting there.
"You okay?" she asked gently.
Kael nodded. "I think the river remembers."
"Remembers what?"
"Everything we forget."
---
