Evening came slowly, the sky dimming from grey to violet.
Anara's body moved on its own, guided by the memory of despair.
I felt the steady rhythm of her steps as she tied her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders and stepped outside.
The dirt road stretched ahead, empty and silent except for the crunch of her worn shoes against the frost.
The village lay quiet — shutters closed, smoke rising from a few chimneys, the scent of stew and firewood drifting faintly on the wind.
Not a soul noticed her passing.
Her thoughts were not hurried.
They moved like her steps — slow, heavy, final.
"No one will stop me. No one will remember me. The river will take what's left, and the water will be kinder than the earth."
I walked with her in silence.
Each step toward the bridge felt like a heartbeat slipping away.
The road curved past the fields, where the winter wheat lay low under thin snow.
Crows wheeled above, black against the dimming sky.
I tried to speak, but my words felt like stones in my throat.
"If you go there, you won't find them. The water won't bring you peace."
For a moment her stride faltered.
Her fingers brushed the edge of her shawl, as if clutching at an old memory.
But then she kept walking.
The bridge came into view — a narrow span of old wood and iron, arching over the slow dark water.
Its planks groaned in the wind, as though already mourning the weight they would soon bear.