Footsteps Beyond the Current

The mist hung heavy, a shroud curling around the river's edge, its silver threads weaving through the rain's fading whisper. Raisa stood before me—or flickered there—her form trembling between shadow and light, her hand in mine, warm, then cold, then warm again. The necklace lay in the grass where it had fallen, its heart pendant glinting faintly, a tether to the 13 years she'd counted, the years I'd lost. Her voice lingered—Hold the years, the rain, the promise—a melody threading through the silence, pulling me forward.

I tightened my grip, her touch anchoring me, and whispered, "We're leaving, Raisa—away from the river, from this." Her eyes—green flecked with hazel—met mine, clouded yet sharp, a spark flaring as she tilted her head. "Leaving?" she murmured, her voice soft, curious, laced with doubt. "Where to, Lukas? The water follows us—it's in you, in me."

I glanced back, the river's dark surface still, its mirror empty, but its murmur pulsed beneath my feet, a heartbeat I couldn't shake. "Away," I said, my voice steady, a root breaking stone. "The shed, the village—somewhere dry, somewhere real—I'll carry you there." She smiled, faint and fleeting, her fingers brushing mine, and whispered, "Carry me? You're brave now—braver than the boy who ran."

I nodded, my chest tight, tears stinging my eyes, and said, "I have to be—for you—for us." I bent, retrieving the necklace, its weight a vow in my palm, and slipped it into my pocket, her presence—or its echo—guiding me. "Come," I said, stepping away from the water, the grass bending beneath us, her form flickering as we moved, the river's pull tugging at my heels.

"Stop," she said, her voice rising, firm, pulling me back. I turned, her hand gripping mine, solid—or shadow—and she murmured, "What if I can't leave? What if the river holds me—holds us—forever?" My heart sank, her words a tide washing over me, but I held her gaze, my voice steadying. "Then I'll pull you free," I said, fierce, "like I did below—I broke the chains, I'll break this too."

Her laughter rose, soft, haunting, cutting through the mist. "Break the river?" she said, her tone playful, a glimpse of the Raisa who'd laughed by the bank, but her eyes darkened, a storm brewing. "You can't break what's already broken, Lukas. Look at me—really look." I stared, her face clear—too clear—her scar glinting, her hair tangling in the wind, but her shadow stretched, thin and wavering, bleeding into the mist, into the grass.

"You're here," I insisted, my voice breaking, pulling her closer, her warmth slipping—or steadying. "I held you—I felt you—I won't let you fade." She stepped forward, her breath brushing my cheek, and whispered, "Fade? Maybe I already have—maybe I'm the rain, the river, the years you left behind." I shook my head, tears falling, and said, "No—you're Raisa—the woman I loved, the one I'll save."

Her hand pressed to my chest, her touch warm, then cold, and she murmured, "Save me? You're trembling again, Lukas—why?" I swallowed, vulnerability spilling free, and said, "Because I don't know—I don't know if you're real, or mine, or gone—but I'll walk with you, Raisa. I'll prove it." Her eyes softened, a tear—or rain—tracing her cheek, and she whispered, "Prove it? Then take me—away from here, away from the water."

I nodded, turning, her hand in mine, and we walked, the grass yielding, the river's murmur fading—or following, a shadow beneath the earth. The shed loomed ahead, its sagging roof a scar against the mist, and I glanced back, the river a dark line cutting the horizon. "See?" I said, my voice steadying, "We're leaving—I'm keeping you." She smiled, faint, real, and murmured, "Are you? Or is it keeping us?"

The ground shifted, soft and wet, and I stumbled, her grip tightening—or slipping—as the grass gave way, mud sucking at my feet. "Raisa!" I shouted, pulling her close, but the earth trembled, a crack splitting the bank, water seeping up, dark and swift, pooling around us. Her eyes widened, her voice sharp, "It's here, Lukas—the river—it won't let go." I froze, the water rising, cold against my ankles, and whispered, "No—I won't let it take you."

Her laughter echoed, broken, desperate, and she said, "Take me? It already has—look!" I stared, the water climbing, her reflection shimmering—not her now, but younger, screaming, pounding wood, her hands stained with blood—or mud. "That's me," she whispered, her voice fading, "13 years ago—the day you left." I lunged, my arms closing around her, solid, then shadow, the water surging, her form wavering as the crack widened, the river roaring beneath us.

"Stay!" I shouted, my voice breaking, rain washing my tears into the flood. "I'm here—I'll hold you—" Her hand slipped, her eyes meeting mine, alive, then empty, and she murmured, "Hold me? You can't hold the rain, Lukas." The water rose, a tide swallowing the grass, and she faded—or sank—her voice echoing, "Don't let go," as the mist thickened, the shed vanishing, the river claiming us—or me, alone, trembling in its embrace.