Day 18: Gorath’s Journal

The river’s edge feels colder now. I’m not sure why I keep going back there—maybe it’s the way the water glints in the moonlight, or the way the reeds whisper against the stones. Last night, Vex said something that stuck in my throat like a stone: ‘The river doesn’t remember what it’s done.’ I tried to push it away, but the words lingered, heavy as wet cloth. Now, as I lie down, my mind races with what Vex meant, and the thought that the river might not be a place at all, but a feeling—something that moves through things without leaving a trace. I wonder if the stones I find near the water hold stories too, or if they’re just silent. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand.