The River’s Silent Vow

Rain lingered, a soft veil threading through the mist, its silver drops catching the river's gleam beyond the shed. I stood, Raisa in my arms, her body light yet heavy with the weight of her words—Prove it. Her eyes were closed again, her breath—or its ghost—faint against my chest, her chains clinking softly with each step. The grass bent beneath us, damp and yielding, leading toward the river's murmur, a pulse calling me forward. "I will," I whispered, my voice firm, a vow carved into the storm's wake.

Her fingers twitched in mine, a spark of life—or memory—and her lips parted, a sigh escaping. "Where are you taking me?" she murmured, her voice low, frail, yet threaded with curiosity. I paused, the river's song swelling, and met her gaze as her eyes flickered open—green flecked with hazel, clouded but searching. "To the river," I said, my words steady, deliberate. "Where we began—where I'll make it right."

She tilted her head, her chains rattling, and her voice rose, soft but sharp, "Make what right, Lukas? The chains? The blood?" I flinched, the memory flashing—rain, her fall, my hands stained—but held her tighter, my resolve hardening. "All of it," I said, my voice rising, a bridge across our broken past. "I locked you away, I ran—but I'm here now, Raisa. I'll break these chains, I'll face the river—I'll face you."

Her lips curved, a smile faint and bittersweet, and she murmured, "You sound so sure." I knelt by the riverbank, the water dark and still, its surface a mirror reflecting the mist, our shadows trembling there. I set her down gently, her chains pooling in the grass, and pulled the key from my pocket—bent, rusted, marked with 13. "I am sure," I said, my hands steady as I pressed the key to the lock on her wrists. "Watch me."

The metal groaned, resisting, but I twisted harder, the key scraping, my knuckles bleeding anew. "Talk to me," I said, my voice urgent, needing her voice to anchor me. She watched, her eyes unblinking, and whispered, "You're shaking, Lukas. Why?" I paused, the key caught, and met her gaze, vulnerability spilling free. "Because I'm scared," I admitted, my voice breaking. "Scared I'll fail you again—scared you'll vanish, or I'll wake up, and this'll be another dream."

Her hand lifted, trembling, brushing my cheek, her touch warm despite the cold. "I'm scared too," she said, her voice softening, a confession mirroring mine. "Scared you'll leave again—scared I'll stay here, chained to you, to this river, forever." I shook my head, fierce, twisting the key again. "Not this time," I said, my voice a vow, a song against the rain. "I'll break it—I'll break us free."

The lock clicked, a sharp, hollow sound, and the chain fell, clinking into the grass. I stared, my breath caught, as Raisa's wrists—raw, bruised—lay bare, her hands trembling in mine. She looked at them, then at me, her eyes wide, a tear—or rain—tracing her cheek. "You did it," she whispered, her voice fragile, wonder threading through. "But what now, Lukas? What if I'm not real?"

I gripped her hands, my own trembling now, and said, "You're real to me—your voice, your touch, your pain. That's enough." She leaned closer, her breath brushing my lips, and murmured, "Is it? Or am I just your echo, your guilt?" The river's murmur swelled, a chorus to her words, and I saw it—her reflection in the water, faint, wavering, her face beside mine, then bleeding into shadow.

"No," I said, fierce, pulling her closer, rain soaking us both. "You're Raisa—the woman I loved, the one I failed, the one I'll save." Her lips curved, a smile real and raw, and she said, "Then save me from this—from the river, from you." I nodded, standing, lifting her with me, her body light, her presence heavy with hope and doubt. "I will," I said, stepping toward the water, its dark surface a threshold I couldn't cross alone.

"Stop," she said, her voice rising, firm, pulling me back. I froze, her hands gripping mine, and she whispered, "What if it takes us both? What if I'm the river, Lukas—the flood you can't escape?" My heart sank, her words a weight I'd carried since the room, but I held her gaze, my voice steady. "Then we face it together—I won't let go."

Her eyes softened, a spark reigniting, and she murmured, "Together?" I nodded, tears blurring the river's gleam. "Together." She leaned into me, her head on my shoulder, and whispered, "Prove it—step in." I hesitated, the water cold against my toes, but her hand tightened, her voice a thread of trust: "I'm with you."

I stepped forward, the river rising, dark and swift, swallowing our feet, our knees, her chains sinking into its depths. Her laugh—faint, real—cut through the rain, and she said, "You're still shaking." I smiled, shaky but true, "For you—always for you." The water climbed, a tide pulling us under, and her voice echoed, "Don't forget me," as the mist thickened, her form wavering—solid, then shadow, then gone.

I stood alone, the river still, the necklace in my hand, its heart pendant glinting in the rain. "Raisa?" I whispered, but the water held her—or me, or nothing at all.Rain lingered, a soft veil threading through the mist, its silver drops catching the river's gleam beyond the shed. I stood, Raisa in my arms, her body light yet heavy with the weight of her words—Prove it. Her eyes were closed again, her breath—or its ghost—faint against my chest, her chains clinking softly with each step. The grass bent beneath us, damp and yielding, leading toward the river's murmur, a pulse calling me forward. "I will," I whispered, my voice firm, a vow carved into the storm's wake.

Her fingers twitched in mine, a spark of life—or memory—and her lips parted, a sigh escaping. "Where are you taking me?" she murmured, her voice low, frail, yet threaded with curiosity. I paused, the river's song swelling, and met her gaze as her eyes flickered open—green flecked with hazel, clouded but searching. "To the river," I said, my words steady, deliberate. "Where we began—where I'll make it right."

She tilted her head, her chains rattling, and her voice rose, soft but sharp, "Make what right, Lukas? The chains? The blood?" I flinched, the memory flashing—rain, her fall, my hands stained—but held her tighter, my resolve hardening. "All of it," I said, my voice rising, a bridge across our broken past. "I locked you away, I ran—but I'm here now, Raisa. I'll break these chains, I'll face the river—I'll face you."

Her lips curved, a smile faint and bittersweet, and she murmured, "You sound so sure." I knelt by the riverbank, the water dark and still, its surface a mirror reflecting the mist, our shadows trembling there. I set her down gently, her chains pooling in the grass, and pulled the key from my pocket—bent, rusted, marked with 13. "I am sure," I said, my hands steady as I pressed the key to the lock on her wrists. "Watch me."

The metal groaned, resisting, but I twisted harder, the key scraping, my knuckles bleeding anew. "Talk to me," I said, my voice urgent, needing her voice to anchor me. She watched, her eyes unblinking, and whispered, "You're shaking, Lukas. Why?" I paused, the key caught, and met her gaze, vulnerability spilling free. "Because I'm scared," I admitted, my voice breaking. "Scared I'll fail you again—scared you'll vanish, or I'll wake up, and this'll be another dream."

Her hand lifted, trembling, brushing my cheek, her touch warm despite the cold. "I'm scared too," she said, her voice softening, a confession mirroring mine. "Scared you'll leave again—scared I'll stay here, chained to you, to this river, forever." I shook my head, fierce, twisting the key again. "Not this time," I said, my voice a vow, a song against the rain. "I'll break it—I'll break us free."

The lock clicked, a sharp, hollow sound, and the chain fell, clinking into the grass. I stared, my breath caught, as Raisa's wrists—raw, bruised—lay bare, her hands trembling in mine. She looked at them, then at me, her eyes wide, a tear—or rain—tracing her cheek. "You did it," she whispered, her voice fragile, wonder threading through. "But what now, Lukas? What if I'm not real?"

I gripped her hands, my own trembling now, and said, "You're real to me—your voice, your touch, your pain. That's enough." She leaned closer, her breath brushing my lips, and murmured, "Is it? Or am I just your echo, your guilt?" The river's murmur swelled, a chorus to her words, and I saw it—her reflection in the water, faint, wavering, her face beside mine, then bleeding into shadow.

"No," I said, fierce, pulling her closer, rain soaking us both. "You're Raisa—the woman I loved, the one I failed, the one I'll save." Her lips curved, a smile real and raw, and she said, "Then save me from this—from the river, from you." I nodded, standing, lifting her with me, her body light, her presence heavy with hope and doubt. "I will," I said, stepping toward the water, its dark surface a threshold I couldn't cross alone.

"Stop," she said, her voice rising, firm, pulling me back. I froze, her hands gripping mine, and she whispered, "What if it takes us both? What if I'm the river, Lukas—the flood you can't escape?" My heart sank, her words a weight I'd carried since the room, but I held her gaze, my voice steady. "Then we face it together—I won't let go."

Her eyes softened, a spark reigniting, and she murmured, "Together?" I nodded, tears blurring the river's gleam. "Together." She leaned into me, her head on my shoulder, and whispered, "Prove it—step in." I hesitated, the water cold against my toes, but her hand tightened, her voice a thread of trust: "I'm with you."

I stepped forward, the river rising, dark and swift, swallowing our feet, our knees, her chains sinking into its depths. Her laugh—faint, real—cut through the rain, and she said, "You're still shaking." I smiled, shaky but true, "For you—always for you." The water climbed, a tide pulling us under, and her voice echoed, "Don't forget me," as the mist thickened, her form wavering—solid, then shadow, then gone.

I stood alone, the river still, the necklace in my hand, its heart pendant glinting in the rain. "Raisa?" I whispered, but the water held her—or me, or nothing at all.