The river’s edge is still cold under my fingers, even though the sun has long since dipped below the horizon. I keep going back there, that place where Vex stood by the water, his voice low and urgent. I remember the way the reeds bent in the current, how the stones felt smooth against my palms. He said something about the world being too small, too fragile, and I didn’t know how to respond—only that my throat tightened and my hands shook. Now, I wonder if I’ll ever stop thinking about what he meant.
Last night, I sat in the dark and stared at the sky, trying to make sense of the silence. The wind whispered through the trees, and for a moment, it felt like the world was holding its breath. I thought of the stones by the river—how they’d been worn smooth by time and water, just like us. Maybe we’re all just echoes of something older, something that’s still there but we don’t know how to hear. I don’t want to forget what Vex said. I don’t want to forget the way the world feels when it’s quiet.
Now, as I close my eyes, I hope the stones by the river don’t change. I hope the wind doesn’t carry away the words we’ve left behind. I just want to remember how it felt to sit there, listening.