The Night the River Took the Moon

The villagers of Keshari Bend still whisper about the night the river swallowed the moon.

Not the real moon — no one is foolish enough to believe that —

but the reflection of it, the shining white path that once stretched across the dark water like a promise.

They say it vanished the moment Mira crossed the old wooden bridge, barefoot, trembling, and soaked with rain.

But the truth begins much earlier.

Mira had always believed the river listened.

As a child she sang her secrets to it, watching her voice ripple across the surface.

As a young woman she walked along its banks whenever her heart grew heavy, letting the water hold the things she could not.

And then, there was Arin.

Wild-hearted, sharp-eyed Arin, who never feared the storms that made the rest of the town hide indoors.

He loved the river the way Mira did — not as a body of water, but as something alive.

Their love began like most storms do:

quiet at first, a soft gathering of clouds,

a single touch that felt like lightning.

But Arin belonged to shadows he never spoke of.

He disappeared for days, sometimes weeks, returning with bruised knuckles, torn clothing, and a voice that carried too much weight.

Mira never asked for details — she loved him with the helplessness of a tide pulled by its moon.

It was enough.

Until the night the knock came.

Three men.

Faces like stone.

Words like knives.

Arin owed them.

They came to collect.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t beg.

He only said to Mira, “Stay inside. No matter what you hear. No matter what happens.”

But love doesn’t obey.

It only burns.

When she heard the gunfire, she didn’t think — she ran.

Barefoot through mud, her breath a storm in her chest.

By the time she reached the riverbank, the men were gone.

Only the sound of water remained.

And Arin’s coat — torn, bloodied — drifting toward the center of the river.

She jumped in after it.

Villagers say they found her hours later, shivering on the shore, clutching the coat to her chest, whispering Arin’s name like a prayer unraveling.

The river gave her back.

It gave nothing else.

No body.

No clues.

No peace.

Everyone told her to let go.

They said the river takes what it wants.

But Mira was stubborn.

Love had made her brave, and grief had made her unbreakable.

Every night, she returned to the river.

Every night, she called his name.

And then came the night — that night — when the moon’s reflection vanished.

It was late.

The sky carried the bruised colors of an ending day.

The water should have glittered silver, bright and still.

But instead, darkness trembled across the surface, like something beneath was turning, shifting, waking.

Mira stood on the bridge, heart hammering.

She felt it before she saw it — the pull, the familiar warmth blooming along her ribs.

For a moment, the water glowed.

Not moonlight.

Not stars.

Something deeper.

Something golden.

Something that knew her name.

And then she heard it —

a whisper rising from the river as soft as breath against skin.

Mira.

Her knees gave way.

She crawled to the edge, tears falling so fast they disappeared into the dark water.

“Arin?”

The name fell from her lips like a wounded bird.

The river stirred.

A hand — not flesh, not ghost, but something in between — surfaced for the briefest moment, reaching toward her before dissolving into ripples.

Mira didn’t jump.

She didn’t scream.

She simply pressed her palm to the shimmering water.

“I’m not afraid,” she said.

The river sighed — a sound like rain and memory and regret.

And then the moon came back.

Bright.

Whole.

Resting upon the surface as if nothing had ever disturbed it.

But Mira knew.

Some loves don’t end.

Some loves change shape.

And some loves continue

— silently, eternally —

beneath the water where the moon goes to dream.