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No one knew when the water had last spoken. It flowed as one remembers something that was never quite there—pale blue and quiet, a whisper of light and time. On the bank stood the old mill, its wheel turning slowly, not for grain, but for thoughts caught in the current. The colors were soft—green that tasted like moss, blue that smelled of childhood, and the flowers at the edge seemed like notes someone had scribbled on the picture as they passed: red, yellow, purple—little exclamations amidst the silence. A boy sat on the wooden jetty. His shirt was too big, his gaze too wide. He held the fishing rod as if it were a paintbrush, and perhaps the water was merely his canvas, the movement his poem. He didn't speak. But sometimes you saw a silver fish flash—not in the river, but in his smile. And if you looked long enough, you thought you could see that the light around you wasn't reflecting – it was listening to you.
