The river was still.
Not frozen, not flowing.
Just… still.
Like even water had forgotten how to move.
I followed its edge for hours, my reflection walking beside me — pink hair, pale skin, quiet eyes — like a softer ghost of who I used to be.
Or maybe who I never was.
There's something about water.
Even when it's broken, it remembers how to listen.
It held every sound I made. Every step. Every breath.
Like it was afraid to let them go.
That's when I saw them —
a pair of shoes.
Just sitting there.
Side by side on the edge of the bank.
Not muddy. Not old.
They looked like someone had taken them off carefully,
like they were planning to come back.
But no one ever does.
---
I knelt beside them. They were small — probably belonged to a girl.
White canvas, frayed laces.
One had a faint pink stain on the toe, like paint, not blood.
I imagined her —
maybe she used to sit here, humming to herself, dipping her toes in the water.
Maybe she left the shoes for someone else.
Maybe she walked into the river on purpose.
I don't ask the world for answers anymore.
It only answers with silence.
But I touched the shoes gently, as if to say,
"I see you."
---
There was a rusted bench nearby, bent on one side. I carried the shoes over and set them neatly on the seat —
as if she might come back.
I sat beside them.
Not because I was tired.
Just because it felt wrong to leave them alone.
I looked at the sky, but it didn't look back.
I looked at the water, but it didn't move.
And yet… something felt softer.
Like the air had exhaled.
---
I spoke aloud — I don't know why.
"If you're still out there…
your shoes are waiting."
A wind passed gently across the river.
The shoelaces lifted just slightly — like a nod.
And something warm touched my shoulder.
When I turned, there was no one.
But on the bench beside me, tucked neatly under one of the shoes,
was a folded paper crane.
It hadn't been there before.
I didn't move.
I didn't speak.
I just watched it…
and waited.