The River Waits for the Quiet Ones

The One Who Never Spoke Much

Luqman wasn’t the kind of kid anyone worried about.

He was quiet — the kind of quiet that made adults say, “He’s such a good boy.” He didn’t run wild, didn’t break things, didn’t shout over others. He walked instead of ran, whispered instead of laughed, and watched the world like it might disappear if he blinked too fast.

He was 10.

I was 14.

We lived in a small village by the river where stories were currency, but warnings were often ignored. The river was part of us. It fed our crops, cooled our skin, and took away the heat of the summer sun. But it also took other things — livestock, fences, time. And, sometimes, people.

The Warning Everyone Forgot

There was a story our grandmother used to tell: The river waits for the quiet ones. She said it like a warning, as if the river noticed the children who never raised their voice and remembered them longer.

We laughed at it, of course.

Until the day Luqman went missing.

The Game That Went Too Far

It was the first week of August, blistering hot. The village kids were bored and sweaty, so we did what we always did — we wandered toward the river, barefoot and grinning.

“Let’s play Hide and Seek,” someone shouted.

Luqman never liked games, but he came anyway, hugging his notebook to his chest — always sketching, always drawing. That day, I convinced him to join. I told him I’d count and he could hide with me.

“I’ll go alone,” he said softly.

“You sure?”

He just nodded, eyes flicking toward the trees lining the riverbank.

I counted to twenty.

And I never saw him again.

The Longest Silence

At first, I thought he’d hidden too well. But as minutes passed, then hours, the game became something else. Something darker.

We searched. Shouted. Split up. We called his name until it lost meaning.

When the sun began to fall, we ran home and confessed.

The adults didn’t panic right away. “Maybe he wandered into a neighbor’s field,” they said. “He’ll come back when he’s hungry.”

But he didn’t.

By nightfall, the village was out with flashlights and prayer beads. The only thing they found was Luqman’s notebook — lying open on a flat rock by the river’s edge, pages fluttering in the breeze.

Inside was a drawing of the river.

Only… it had eyes.

The River’s Choice

They dragged the river for three days.

No body. No clothes. No footprints. Just the notebook. Just silence.

The current was faster that week. The elders said the river had taken something it liked.

“They always say it waits for the quiet ones,” one muttered.

No one laughed.

I Still Talk to Him

I walk to that rock every year, August 5th. I bring paper and pencils and sit for an hour, sketching whatever comes to mind. I leave the best drawing there, weighed down by a stone, like an offering.

Sometimes, when the air is still, I hear a splash — one single sound — like a footstep into water.

Sometimes, I find new drawings in the morning — ones I never made.

A tree bending into the river.

A face beneath the surface.

A boy, standing alone, holding a notebook.

He Was Never Loud. But He Was Here.

Luqman wasn’t the kind of kid who left behind noise. But he left behind presence.

Stillness.

Memory.

And sometimes, still, when I stand by the river with my feet in the mud, I feel like it’s waiting.

For another quiet one.

Maybe even me.