The Echoes We Cannot Hold

The rain fell softer now, a delicate whisper threading through the mist, its silver drops glistening on Raisa's hair as she stood before me, water dripping from her trembling frame. Her eyes—green flecked with hazel—shone with a fragile light, her scar a faint crescent catching the gray dawn. I held her, my arms tight around her, her warmth real against my chest, yet her form flickered—a shadow's edge, a breath caught between worlds. "You stayed," she'd said, her voice a thread weaving us together, but the river's murmur lingered, a question I couldn't silence.

I brushed her cheek, my fingers trembling, rain mingling with tears. "Raisa," I whispered, my voice steady despite the ache, "you're here—I felt you rise." She smiled, faint and fleeting, her hands gripping mine, the raw marks of her chains fading—or imagined. "Did I rise?" she murmured, her tone soft, playful, yet laced with doubt. "Or did you pull me from a dream, Lukas?"

I froze, her words a ripple across the still water behind her, its surface empty now, no reflection staring back. "A dream?" I said, my voice breaking, a crack in the resolve I'd built. "No—I touched you, I broke the chains—you laughed—" She tilted her head, her eyes searching mine, and whispered, "Did I? Tell me what you heard—what you felt."

Her challenge hung, sharp and tender, and I tightened my grip, desperate to anchor her. "Your laugh," I said, my voice rising, firm, "soft, real, like the day we skipped stones—your fingers, warm, pulling me into the water—I won't let that be a dream." Her smile widened, a spark flaring, and she murmured, "That day—I remember it too. The sun, the stones, your hand in mine. But then came the rain."

The river swelled, its murmur deepening, and I saw it—rain lashing the bank, her laughter turning to screams, my hands stained as I turned away. "The rain," I echoed, my voice sinking, heavy with guilt. "I locked you away—I ran—but I'm here now, Raisa. I won't run again." She stepped closer, her breath brushing my lips, and said, "You say that, but your eyes—they're still running, searching for something I might not be."

I shook my head, fierce, tears falling into the grass. "You're you," I insisted, my voice a vow, a plea. "The woman I loved—the one I failed—I'll prove it, I'll keep you—" Her hand pressed to my chest, silencing me, and she whispered, "Keep me? Lukas, what if I'm not yours to keep? What if I'm the echo you chased into the river?"

The mist thickened, coiling around us, and the river's surface shimmered—a faint outline, her face again, but younger, laughing, then fading to shadow. "No," I said, my voice breaking, pulling her closer, her warmth slipping, or steadying—I couldn't tell. "You're not an echo—I held you, I felt your heart—" She cut me off, her voice rising, firm, a spark of the Raisa who'd endured. "Did you? Or did you feel the heart you gave me—the one you locked away with me?"

I staggered, the necklace burning in my pocket, its heart pendant a weight I couldn't shed. "The necklace," I murmured, pulling it free, its glint catching her eyes. "I gave it to you—by the river, under the sun—I promised forever—" She nodded, her fingers brushing it, trembling, and said, "You did. And I wore it—through the rain, the dark, the water—waiting for you. But forever ended, Lukas. 13 years ago."

My chest caved, the 13 echoing—13 steps, 13 years, 13 promises broken. "I didn't know," I choked, my tears falling onto her hand, her skin warm, then cold, then warm again. "I didn't count—I buried you in silence—but I'm here now—I'll make it right." Her eyes softened, a tear—or rain—tracing her cheek, and she murmured, "Right? You can't rewrite the rain, Lukas. But you can face it."

"Face it?" I said, my voice trembling, searching her gaze. "With you?" She stepped back, her form wavering, the river's edge lapping at her feet, and whispered, "If I'm here—if I'm real—then yes. But look at me—really look." I stared, my breath caught, her eyes alive, her hair tangling in the wind, but her shadow—faint, flickering—bled into the mist, into the water, into nothing.

"You're real," I said, my voice steadying, a root taking hold. "I don't care what you are—ghost, dream, echo—you're Raisa, and I'll hold you." Her laughter rose again, soft, haunting, and she said, "Hold me? You're brave now, Lukas—braver than before." I smiled, shaky but true, "For you—always for you."

The river surged, a wave crashing against us, and she stumbled—or faded—her hand slipping from mine. "Raisa!" I shouted, lunging, my arms closing around air, or her, or both—she was there, solid, then gone, her voice echoing, "Don't let go." I fell to my knees, the water cold, the necklace glinting in my hand, her reflection gone—or waiting, beneath the surface, beneath the rain.