The river always sounded the same.
A soft, continuous flow—never rushing, never stopping.
Haru liked that.
Every afternoon after school, he followed the same routine. Bag over one shoulder, earphones in but no music playing. He liked wearing them anyway—it made people less likely to talk to him.
The riverbank was his place.
He sat on the worn concrete edge, feet dangling above the water, watching sunlight ripple across the surface. It was quiet here. Honest. The river never asked questions.
"Do you come here every day?"
The voice startled him.
Haru turned his head and saw a girl standing a few steps away. She had long dark hair tied loosely behind her, a sketchbook tucked under her arm. Her eyes were calm, curious—but not intrusive.
"Uh… yeah," Haru replied.
She smiled. Not wide. Not forced.
"That's nice."
She sat down beside him, leaving a respectful distance between them. For a while, neither spoke. The river filled the silence for them.
"I'm Yuna," she said eventually.
"Haru."
Another silence.
But it didn't feel awkward.
From that day on, she was there.
Not every day. Not always at the same time.
But often enough that Haru began to look for her without realizing it.
Sometimes she drew the river. Sometimes the sky. Sometimes him—though she never admitted it.
"Why do you draw?" Haru asked one day.
Yuna paused, pencil hovering above the paper.
"Because moments disappear," she answered softly. "I don't want to forget them."
Haru didn't understand why those words stayed with him.
But they did.
Like water carving stone— slowly, quietly, inevitably.