The River Remembers

The river had always felt alive to me.
Even when I was seven and its current nearly pulled me under, I could swear I heard it whisper my name before the darkness came.

That summer, I promised myself I’d never come back.

But promises are fragile things.

Fourteen years later, I found myself standing at its edge again. The water shimmered under a late afternoon sun, deceptively calm. The air carried the same damp, earthy smell I remembered from the day I almost drowned.

I told myself I was only here to prove I wasn’t afraid anymore. That the river was just water and stone. That I was grown now.

Then I heard it—a small, desperate cry.

I scanned the bank and saw her: a little girl no older than six, clinging to a slippery rock in the middle of the current. The water around her foamed and twisted, far stronger than the depth should allow.

I didn’t think. I just ran.

The cold hit me like a wall, dragging at my legs, my chest tightening with the same panic I’d felt all those years ago. But I kept pushing forward until I reached her.

“Hold on!” I shouted, grabbing her wrist. The current pulled hard, but this time I was ready.

I hauled her toward the bank, both of us gasping. She coughed, water streaming from her hair, eyes wide.

Then she looked past me—at the river itself—and whispered,

“It told me it wouldn’t let me go if I waited here.”

Her voice was calm, almost trusting.

I turned back. The water’s surface rippled in a way that felt deliberate, like a slow nod. For just a moment, I thought I saw shapes moving beneath—something vast, watching.

When I blinked, it was gone. The river flowed like any other, carrying leaves downstream.

We walked away together, the girl’s small hand in mine. I didn’t ask her what she meant. Some truths you don’t get by asking.

But as we left, I heard it again—faint, almost lost in the wind.

My name harley

The river remembered.