The Breath Beyond the Depths

Darkness pressed in, the river's cold embrace swallowing me whole, its tide a shroud pulling me deeper. Water filled my lungs—or my mind—its weight a mirror to the 13 years I'd drowned in silence, Raisa's voice—Don't forget me—a fading thread in the abyss. The necklace burned in my hand, its heart pendant a faint pulse against the flood, and I thrashed, my arms reaching for her—or the surface—until the current shifted, spitting me out, gasping, onto a bank of mud and stone.

Rain fell in silver whispers, a delicate hymn threading through the mist, washing the river's taste from my lips. I lay there, trembling, the water lapping at my feet, its murmur softer now, a sigh retreating into the earth. The necklace dangled from my fingers, dripping, its glint catching the gray light—or her eyes, somewhere beyond. "Raisa," I choked, my voice raw, breaking against the stillness, "did I lose you?"

A sound—soft, distant—drifted from the mist, a breath or a laugh, weaving through the rain. I staggered to my knees, heart pounding, and searched the flooded bank, its edges blurred by water and shadow. The river stretched wide, its surface still, but empty—no reflection, no ripple, no her. My chest caved, tears falling into the mud, and I whispered, "I held you—I tried—I sank for you—"

The mist parted, faint and slow, and there—a shape, trembling between shadow and light, standing at the water's edge. Raisa. Her hair hung wet, tangling in the wind, her green-hazel eyes glinting, alive—or imagined—her form solid, then wavering, a dance of rain and memory. "Lukas," she murmured, her voice rising from the silence, faint but real, a thread pulling me up. I stumbled forward, the mud sucking at my feet, and reached for her, my fingers brushing air—or her—her warmth flickering against my skin.

"You're here," I said, my voice breaking, tears blurring her face. "I pulled you out—I didn't let go—" She tilted her head, her smile faint, tender, and whispered, "Did you? Or did the river give me back—to you, to itself?" I froze, her words a ripple across my mind, and choked, "Give you back? You're mine—my Raisa—I fought for you—"

Her hand brushed my cheek, warm, then cold, then warm again, and she murmured, "Fought? You sank, Lukas—brave, yes, but sinking still." I gripped her hand, desperate, her touch slipping—or steadying—and said, "I'd sink again—for you, for us—I promised forever, Raisa, and I'll keep it now." Her eyes softened, a spark flaring, and she whispered, "Forever? You promised once, and the rain took it—13 years took it."

My breath hitched, the 13 echoing—13 years, 13 steps, 13 promises drowned—and I knelt before her, the necklace trembling in my hand. "I know," I said, my voice steadying, a root breaking stone. "I left you—I locked you away—but I'm here, Raisa. I'll carry those years—I'll carry you." She stepped closer, her shadow stretching, thin and wavering, and murmured, "Carry me? Where, Lukas? The river's still here—it's in us."

I glanced back, the water gleaming, its edge creeping closer—or receding—its murmur a heartbeat beneath the mud. "Away," I said, my voice rising, fierce, "to the village—to dry ground—to a place we can stand." Her laughter rose, soft, haunting, cutting through the mist. "Stand?" she said, her tone playful, pained. "You're trembling again—can you stand for both of us?"

I smiled, shaky but true, and said, "For you—always for you." I stood, pulling her with me—or trying—her form solid, then shadow, her hand slipping as the mist thickened, the river's sigh swelling behind us. "Come," I said, stepping forward, the ground firmer now, grass breaking through the mud, the shed gone—or hidden—its absence a scar in the haze.

"Stop," she said, her voice sharp, pulling me back. I turned, her eyes wide, her form flickering, and she whispered, "What if I can't follow? What if I'm the water—the rain—the echo you can't leave behind?" My heart sank, her words a tide washing over me, but I held her gaze, my voice steady. "Then I'll stay—I'll drown again—but I won't leave you, Raisa. Not this time."

Her laughter faded, her eyes softening, and she murmured, "Stay? You're braver now—braver than I remember." I stepped closer, my hand brushing her cheek—or the air—and said, "I have to be—I lost you once—I won't again." The mist swirled, the river's edge gleaming, and her form steadied—or dissolved—her voice echoing, "Lost me? Look closer, Lukas."

I stared, the water rising—or falling—its surface shimmering, her reflection there—not her now, but younger, laughing, then screaming, then still. My breath caught, the necklace slipping from my hand, sinking into the mud—or the river—and her voice whispered, "I'm here," as the mist closed in, her form gone—or beside me—leaving me trembling, alone, or not, in the rain's fading hymn.