Gray light seeps through the cracks in the roof. Damp, cool air carries the faint smell of mud and old smoke—the shack breathing with the river. He sits up on the narrow bed, feet finding the splintered floor. Beyond the walls, the world holds its quiet, broken only by a distant train's call and the slow churn of water against the bank.
Joints stiff from the thin mattress, he moves to the window. The glass is filmed with dust and the memory of rain. Outside, gray dissolves slowly into shapes—the dock, the path, chickens scratching in their endless search. Among them, the red hen limps forward, persistent despite her bad leg. The rooster keeps watch from his fence post perch, chest puffed though there is little to defend and less to rule.
A tin basin. Cold water. He washes his face, the sting waking him. The water is brown from the well, tasting of iron and earth. He cups it in his hands, drinks, feels it settle in his empty stomach. The mirror above the basin shows a face he recognizes but does not study—stubble, sun-weathered skin, gray eyes.
The stove is cold. He leaves it that way. The chill will pass.
The bread is hard. He tears it with his teeth, softens it with well water. Bought three days ago, when Mrs. Ada Bell marked it down. By evening it will be harder still, but it will last.
He takes the coffee tin from the shelf, counts the coins inside. Enough for today. The coins make a thin sound when he shakes them. He returns the tin to its place, next to the mason jar of fishhooks and the coil of line that needs mending.
Outside, the path to the river lies worn smooth, each stone settled in its place.
The river runs thick with mud, carrying branches and silt from upstream. The factory rises on the far bank—a monument of broken windows and rusted girders reaching into the gray sky. Scattered machines rust in the weeds below.
He recognizes Eli's shape among the girders—quick, restless, climbing the rusted frame with familiar grace. She disappears, reappears, a flash of movement in the gray. Her jacket catches the dawn light as she moves, always across the river.
The distance blurs her features, but her movements are urgent, purposeful. Sometimes she stops, becomes still, seems to look across the water. Sometimes she waves, though whether at him or at someone else, he cannot say.
He does not wave back.
The chickens gather at the coop as he passes. He scatters saved bread crumbs—hard, barely worth keeping, but the red hen limps forward eagerly, claiming most. In the nesting boxes, three eggs lie warm. He lifts them carefully, turns them in his palm. Good shells, no cracks. He slips them into his jacket pocket, cushioned by the worn fabric. Mrs. Ada Bell will give him credit for them, or Harlan at the bar will trade them for a meal.
The dock creaks under his weight as he kneels at its edge. He checks the line left overnight—hook bare, bait gone, stolen by a turtle perhaps, or dissolved in the current.
From his pocket, he takes the coffee tin with the earthworms. Three worms, fat and dark. He threads one onto the hook, careful not to kill it too quickly. The worm twists, seeking earth that is not there. He casts the line, watches it disappear into the brown water, counts the ripples as they fade.
A boat appears through the morning haze, Reed at the oars. The old man rows with steady strokes, his boat low in the water with the weight of his nets. Their eyes meet across the water. Reed nods, raises one hand briefly from the oar. He nods back. No words pass between them.
Reed's boat carries the smell of fish and tar, the sound of water against wood. The old man's face is weathered, his hands cracked from years of rope and net. His boat is older than most, patched and re-patched, but it holds. A flask catches the light from beneath the seat, its metal worn smooth by handling.
The boat drifts past, dissolving again into the haze. The river carries them both, each in their own direction.
He remains on the dock, listening to the water. Soon the day will begin in earnest. The town will wake, children will run to the river, women will hang laundry, men will gather on porches.
He stands, brushes dirt from his knees, and checks the line once more. Still nothing. The hook dangles in the current.
The far shore stands empty now. Where Eli moved among the girders, only shadow remains.
Behind him, the chickens have returned to their scratching. The rooster watches from the fence post.
He turns from the river, walks the path back to the shack. The day stretches ahead. The eggs need trading, work might be found at the mill. The store might have what he needs, if the coins are enough.
The train whistle sounds again, distant and fading. He listens until it's gone, then steps inside. The latch clicks.
Through the window, the river moves past.
The store sits low, clapboard faded, windows crowded with hand-lettered signs. Paint peels from the sills. The porch sags beneath seed sacks and weathered crates.
The bell above the door chimes as he pushes it open. Inside, the air is thick with dust and molasses-sweet. Shelves half-empty. Flour in cloth sacks, sides soft with age. Penny candy in glass jars, on a shelf. The jars catch light, casting small rainbows on the worn counter.
A child stands by the jars, eyes wide. She might be seven, dress clean but faded, shoes scuffed at the toes. The mother stands near, shoulders tight, eyes on the floor. Her hands twist a handkerchief.
Ada stands behind the counter, ledger open, pencil moving. She nods at his entrance, eyes sharp. The counter bears rings from mason jars, cuts from countless transactions. Behind her, shelves hold patent medicines, bottles of castor oil, tobacco tins.
He reaches into his jacket pocket, careful with the eggs. The shells are warm, uncracked. He places them on the counter, one by one, turning them for Ada's inspection. She lifts each egg to the light, nods.
Ada opens a small notebook, different from the ledger, makes a mark. Credit for three eggs. She adds numbers in her careful hand, then looks up. He points to the coffee, the salt. She nods, reaches for each item, weighs them. The scale tips, settles. The coffee ground fine, salt white as river sand.
She adds a line to the ledger, writing neat and steady. The page filled with names and numbers. The ledger lies thick on the counter, pages yellowed, binding cracked.
His hand moves to his pocket, draws out coins worn smooth by time. They catch the morning light as he sets them on the counter—payment for last week's credit. Ada's fingers move across them, counting without sound, then sweep them into the drawer.
The child hasn't moved from the candy jars. Her breath clouds the glass. She wipes it with her sleeve. The mother steps closer, hand on the child's shoulder. The child points to peppermint sticks, red and white stripes. The mother shakes her head. The child's hand drops.
The mother looks at the candy, then at Ada. Ada's eyes stay on the ledger. After a moment, the mother takes the child's hand. They move to the door. The bell chimes their exit, footsteps fading on wood.
Ada marks the ledger again, eyes down.
A shadow passes the window—Brother Calvin wlaking his route. Her pencil stills. Then her hand returns to its work, each number drawn with careful precision.
He takes his parcel, nods, steps outside. The sun rides higher now. A stray dog pants in shade, ribs showing. He reaches into his pocket for a piece of his morning bread, drops it near. The dog sniffs, eats, tail moving once.
Mara stands in the road-side shade, arms crossed, watching the sky. She doesn't look as he passes. Morning light catches in her hair.
He shifts the parcel, feels the weight of coffee and salt. Coffee might last a week. Salt will last longer. The morning stretches ahead—purchases to store away, work to find.
Behind him, the store settles into its familiar scents of dust and molasses. The dog finds deeper shade.
The bell rings, cracked and uncertain, its sound drifting over the rooftops. He hears it from the path toward town, a dull summons that carries across the water. He keeps walking, dust rising with each step, headed for the mill road where work might be found.
The church stands at the edge of the square, white paint peeling like old skin, steeple leaning slightly to the left. The building is weathered, its foundation cracked, its windows clouded with years of rain and sun. A sign by the door reads "All Welcome" in faded letters. Morning shadows stretch across the ground, and the air is cool with the promise of heat to come. Cicadas drone in the oak trees, their song rising and falling like breath.
People gather in twos and threes, heads bowed, voices low. Faded but clean, the women wear their best dresses, hair pinned back. The men carry worn Bibles, their shoes polished despite the scuffs. Children fidget beside their parents, tugging at starched collars and ribbon ties.
He slows his pace, then stops, standing apart as Brother Calvin greets each arrival with a practiced smile, collar askew, voice loud in the morning air. Calvin is a big man, thick around the middle, his face flushed with heat and conviction. His handshake is firm, his gaze intense, his words quick and certain. His gaze rests a beat too long on each younger woman, the smile deepening just slightly before returning to its practiced warmth.
"Mary, good to see you. Blessed morning."
"Tom, how's the family? The Lord provides."
The congregation files inside, shoes scraping the steps, hymnals clutched tight. The mother from the store is there, her child beside her, both wearing dresses that have been let out and taken in. As she passes, Ada nods to them, her own dress simple but well-kept.
Inside, the hymns begin—off-key, slow, the words familiar. Through the open door, he catches fragments of song, voices raised in hope or habit. The piano is out of tune, its keys yellow with age, its sound thin in the morning air. The congregation sings with more effort than joy.
Brother Calvin's voice rises above the rest, calling for prayer. Heads bow. Some eyes close, others fix on the floor. Calvin prays for the community, for the harvest, for the souls of those who have strayed. His voice carries through the open door, rich and rolling, practiced in its cadence.
"Lord, we ask for Your blessing on this community, on these faithful souls who gather in Your name. Watch over our neighbors, those who struggle with pride and sin, those who turn away from Your light. Guard us from the temptations that lead us astray, from the paths that divide us from righteousness."
The words mix with insect buzz and a train's distant whistle. He leans against the fence. A dog sniffs at the church steps, moves on.
Calvin's voice rises and falls. He speaks of sin and redemption, of the river's memory and God's judgment. Murmurs of agreement answer him, soft and weary. Bodies shift in pews. Hymnals fan hot air. His words turn to community order, proper conduct, the dangers of charity without wisdom.
Through the door, rows of bent shoulders, bowed heads. The pews hold gaps, but those present sit with purpose. Mrs. Ada Bell near the front, spine straight, eyes on Calvin. The mother from the store in back, her child beside her, both still as stone.
A woman weeps quietly on the steps, her shoulders shaking with each sob. Her dress is patched at the elbows, her shoes worn thin. She holds a handkerchief to her face, trying to muffle the sound. She sits alone on the step.
He watches from the fence. The service continues inside, Calvin's voice steady.
The hymns resume, voices joining in song that speaks of hope and salvation. The melody is familiar, the words worn smooth by repetition. The congregation sings with determination, their voices carrying across the square, past the stores and houses, toward the river.
The sun climbs higher, the bell's echo fading into memory. The service draws to its close, Calvin's final prayer echoing through the open door. The people inside begin to stir, gather their belongings.
The congregation spills out, blinking in the bright light. They move slowly, reluctantly. Calvin stands at the door, shaking hands, offering final words of encouragement or advice.
"God bless you. Remember what we talked about."
"Next week, then. The Lord's work continues."
The people disperse, walking back to their homes, their farms, their daily struggles. The weeping woman has composed herself, clutching her handkerchief. She walks away alone, her steps careful, her head down.
Ada lingers after the others leave, moving through the empty pews to stack hymnals and straighten cushions. She works with quiet efficiency, her service continuing beyond the worship. Calvin moves through the church, closing windows, adjusting chairs. Their paths cross near the altar. A moment of proximity, nothing more, but she steps aside, maintains distance. Her movements remain careful, measured. When a hymnal slips from her hands, she retrieves it quickly, avoiding his eyes. The efficiency masks the tremor in her fingers.
He pauses beside her, sets down a small wrapped bundle on the altar rail. "For the poor box," he says quietly. She nods, does not look at the bundle, but her hand brushes his as she reaches for another hymnal. The touch is brief, deliberate. She picks up the bundle, unwraps it partially—fabric, blue and worn soft. She wraps it again, places it carefully aside. "I'll see it gets where it needs to go," she says, voice barely above a whisper.
He pushes away from the fence, the square emptying, the church settling back into quiet. The service is over, its echoes lingering in the air.
He turns toward the creek where it meets the river. Behind him, the church stands empty, doors closed, bell silent. Ahead, through the trees, the mill wheel turns, its steady rhythm a different kind of sermon.
The wheel turns in the current, wooden spokes dark with water. The mill sits upstream on the creek before it meets river, stone foundation green with moss, walls weathered gray. Water flows steady through the wheel's channels, driving the mechanism within.
He walks the path beside the creek, boots squelching in the mud. The miller sometimes has work—heavy sacks, small repairs, tasks that might pay in coins rather than credit. The work comes and goes, depending on the miller's mood and the season's demands.
The mill door stands open, flour dust dancing in the morning light. Inside, the great stones turn, their grinding filling the air with a sound. The miller stands beside the mechanism, his thick hands checking the flow of grain, his movements practiced and sure.
"Need something?" the miller asks without looking up. His voice carries over the grinding stones, rough as the grain itself. He is a large man, thick through the chest and shoulders, his hair gray and thinning. His hands are permanently stained with flour, his clothes dusted white.
"Work," he says. "If there's any."
The miller glances at him, considers. "Henderson's sack needs delivering. And the store." He jerks his head toward the door. "Cart's outside."
Each sack waits by the door, marked with a name, a weight, a price. He lifts them one by one, muscles tensing against the weight of grain. His stomach contracts with emptiness, but his hands remain steady. The miller watches, counting, making marks in a ledger with a stub of pencil.
"Mind the Henderson sack," the miller says. "They'll complain either way."
Mara appears in the doorway that leads to the mill house, her movements careful, deliberate. She carries a tray—bread, cheese, a cup of water. Her dress is simple, faded blue, her hair pulled back severe. She shows tiredness that comes from years, not days. She sets the tray on the miller's table without meeting his eyes.
"About time," the miller says, his voice different now. Sharper. "Where's the butter?"
She sets down an empty butter crock, its sides scraped clean. "Gone," she says quietly.
The miller's jaw tightens. "Gone." He repeats the word like it tastes bad. "Everything's always gone with you."
She does not argue, does not explain. She stands beside the table, hands folded, eyes on the floor. The wheel turns, grinding grain, filling the silence.
"Get more," the miller says. "And mind the cost."
She nods, turns to go. The miller watches her walk away, his expression unreadable. When she disappears into the house, he returns to his ledger, his pencil moving across the page.
The deliveries are quick—Henderson's farm, then Ada's store. Mrs. Henderson checks the sack, counts out payment with careful fingers. Ada runs the flour through her fingers, testing its quality. "Good flour," she says. "Tell him I said so."
The sun rides higher as he pushes the empty cart back to the mill. The miller waits, counting coins twice, making marks. "Two bits," he says, pressing the coins into his palm. "Come back next week. Might have something."
The coins are cold, few, real. He pockets them, nods, turns to go. In the doorway to the mill house, Mara appears again, like a shadow at the edge of sight. She watches him leave, her expression unreadable. He nods to her. She does not respond, but something in her posture softens.
The path back to the river lies quiet. Behind him, the mill wheel turns, grinding grain, marking time. The sound fades as he walks.
At the river, afternoon shadows stretch across the dock. The water moves past, brown and slow, carrying its burden of silt and debris. He checks his fishing line, empty as always. The coins make a small sound when he moves.
He pushes the boat from the dock, oar dipping, river slow and heavy beneath him. Old, its wood soft with age, the boat's bottom is scarred and stained. Water seeps through the gaps, pooling around his feet, but it holds. It floats.
The current carries him past the factory—windows broken, walls streaked with rust. The building rises against the softening sky, its skeleton of steel and iron catching the late light. Laughter rings out, clear in the quiet air, echoing off the water. A figure climbs the girders, quick and fearless, moving between light and shadow.
He watches as the figure moves through the structure, leaping from beam to beam. Red fabric flashes—a scarf or shirt tied around the waist. The movements are fluid, confident, reckless. The figure pauses at the top, arms spread wide, then drops something into the water below. A splash, then more laughter. The figure disappears into the maze of metal.
He rows in silence, the river wide and brown, reeds brushing the hull. The water tastes of fallen leaves and earth. Cattails bend in the slight breeze, their brown heads heavy with seed. A heron lifts from the shallows, wings beating slow against the cooling air. Its cry echoes across the water, lonely and wild.
The oar cuts through the surface, disturbing reflections of sky and cloud. He drifts, lets the current decide. The world narrows to water, wood, and breath. The river bottom is invisible, lost in brown depths that could be three feet or thirty.
A fish jumps, silver flash in the brown water, then gone. Ripples spread outward, catching late light, then fading. He considers the fishing line coiled in the bottom of the boat, the hooks wrapped in cloth, but does not reach for them.
Reed appears, boat gliding from the bank's shadow. They pass close, eyes meeting for a moment. No words. His skin is weathered, his hands scarred from years of labor. He nods, moves on, the current taking him downstream.
Reed's boat leaves a small wake, gentle waves that rock his vessel. The old man's strokes are steady, efficient. He knows these waters, these currents, these moods of the river.
Eli appears on the riverbank, moving quick and sure. A wave, a flash of hand, then gone, running along the river's edge. Something bright falls from her pocket as she runs—a coin or bottle cap catching light. He watches, a line of movement against the autumn trees, disappearing into shadow.
The river moves on, indifferent. A turtle surfaces, head breaking the water, eyes dark and ancient. It watches the boat pass, then sinks back into the depths. The far shore softens in the fading light, the factory's broken windows turning gold.
He lets the boat drift, the oar resting across his knees. The wood is cool beneath his hands, smooth and worn. A crow calls from the trees, its voice carrying in the clear air.
The factory shrinks behind him. Eli is gone, dissolved into shadow and steel. The river curves ahead, bending toward unknown shores.
Water laps against the hull, a steady rhythm that matches his breathing. The boat moves with the current, following the river's path. He does not fight it, does not try to direct its course.
A kingfisher dives, emerging with a fish in its beak. It flies to a dead branch, shakes its catch, then swallows it whole.
A tire hangs from a tree, a rope swing left unused. A dock juts into the water, its boards green with moss—it might still take weight. Empty cans rust in the weeds, their labels long washed away. A broken chair lies half-buried in silt, its wicker back a nest for water plants.
He passes a sandbar, its surface dotted with the tracks of raccoons and possums. The water is shallower here, clearer, revealing the bottom strewn with rocks and fallen branches. A snake slides from a log, leaving ripples in the quiet water.
The river stretches ahead, branches caught in the current. Evening mist rises from the cooling surface.
The bar sags at the edge of town, porch littered with bottles and broken chairs. The paint is gone, leaving weathered wood gray and worn. A sign hangs crooked by the door, letters too faded to read. He doesn't mean to go in.
Eli is ahead, hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched against the evening breeze. She glances back once, waits at the door. He follows, not thinking.
Inside, the air is thick with sweat and cheap spirits. Floorboards creak under his weight, sticky with spilled drinks. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows.
Eli pushes through to the bar, coins already in her hand. She slaps them down, metal ringing against wood. "Two," she says to Harlan. Her jacket hangs loose—sleeves rolled back, thin wrists marked with old scratches, shoulder held together by a safety pin.
Lila sits in her corner, suitcase at her feet. Her dress hangs loose, her hair unwashed, her eyes shifting between vacant and sharp as Harlan's attention wanders. She hums broken melodies, the suitcase's brass fittings as tarnished as her voice.
Amos hunches at the bar, muttering with eyes on the floor. His clothes are stained, his beard unkempt, fingers wrapped white-knuckled around his mug. A wedding ring catches the light—the only clean thing about him. His words emerge only when he thinks himself unheard.
Behind the counter, Harlan dozes beside a half-empty bottle, his ledger open beneath one heavy hand. The proprietor's belly strains against his shirt, his breathing thick with sleep.
"Late," Amos mutters, not looking up. His voice is slurred, his words directed at the floor.
"Always," Lila echoes, voice flat.
Harlan grunts, half-awake. "Always comes."
The words drift through the room, worn smooth by repetition. No one expects an answer. He moves to the bar, finds an empty stool at the far end. The wood is worn smooth, stained with rings from countless glasses. He sits carefully, back to the wall, watching the room.
A man slumps at a table near the door, head in his hands. A bottle sits empty before him, its label peeled away. His clothes are clean but wrinkled, his shoes polished but worn. He looks up once, eyes red, then returns to staring at the table. The miller.
Lila laughs, sharp and sudden, breaking the hush. The sound cuts through the room. Amos grumbles, knocks over his mug, curses the world. Beer spreads across the bar, dripping onto the floor. Harlan stirs, looks at the mess, then settles back.
Eli tosses back her drink, sets the glass down hard. The second glass sits untouched beside her elbow. She spins on her stool, eyes bright and restless.
A glass slides his way, liquid dark and nameless. He drinks without asking, the burn settling in his chest.
A man enters, moves toward the table where the miller sits. "My chair," comes the growl, flour still dusting the sleeves. The newcomer sits anyway. They collide like broken machinery—gears that no longer mesh. Hands grab air, feet stumble on nothing.
"Outside," Harlan says.
"Down in the valley, the valley so low," Lila sings.
The fight dies quickly. The miller retreats to the bar, muttering about respect. The other man finds a different corner, nursing his lip.
Eli slides the untouched glass toward him. He shakes his head. She shrugs, drinks it herself. "Waste nothing," she says, words sharp as the safety pin in her jacket.
The room fills and empties. A woman enters, finds no welcome, leaves. The door's slam shakes the windows. Harlan mutters about the damp.
He watches the parade of nowhere people, saying nothing. They drink because it helps, or because it doesn't matter.
Eli stands abruptly, fishing more coins from her pocket. She counts them in her palm, then laughs at what she sees. "Easy come," she says to no one. She heads for the door, but stops, turns back. "River's not frozen yet." Her eyes are bright with something—alcohol, mischief, or both. She disappears into the dim evening air.
The night deepens. Lila's song turns strange, Amos speaks secrets to the floor. Faces blur as glasses empty and refill, marking time in liquid measures.
The evening breeze strengthens, stirring leaves and carrying the first scent of rain. Storm clouds mass in the twilight, their weight pressing down on the town. He is caught in the open when the first drops fall.
Rain drums on tin roofs, turning dust to mud, paths to streams. Lightning splits distance, thunder rolling across water. The storm releases its burden in sheets, blurring the world to gray shapes.
He runs for the shed behind the mill, his boots slipping on the wet earth. The structure is old, its walls weathered, its roof patched with sheets of tin that sing under the rain's assault. The door hangs crooked on its hinges, creaking in the wind.
Inside, darkness thick, air heavy with the smell of wet earth and oil. The shed is cramped, filled with machinery—rusted gears, broken tools, lengths of chain that catch what little light filters through the gaps in the walls. Water drips through the roof in places, pooling on the dirt floor.
Mara is already there, sitting on a wooden crate, arms folded. She nods when he enters, makes room without speaking. Her hair is damp, her dress clinging to her frame. Through gaps in the walls, the mill house stands dark. A small canvas bag sits beside her, drawstring pulled close, positioned away from the drips.
Outside, the rain continues its assault. The mill wheel creaks and groans, turned by the swollen stream. Lightning flashes, the world white for a moment, revealing the shed's contents in stark detail—the rust, the decay, the remnants of work once done.
They sit in silence, listening to the storm. The air is close, humid, filled with the scent of rain and earth and something else—the metallic smell of old machinery, the mustiness of a place long unused.
Thunder rolls overhead, shaking the tin roof. She shifts on the crate, stands, moves closer. Her breath is warm against his neck. The rain continues, masking sound, masking movement. Lightning flashes again, throwing their shadows against the walls. Her hands move to his shirt.
They move together in the darkness, finding rhythm with the storm.
After, she dresses without looking at him, her movements efficient, matter-of-fact. He buttons his shirt, stares at the floor. The rain slows to a steady patter, then to scattered drops. The storm is passing, leaving the world washed and clean.
She stands, smooths her dress, checks the door. The wind has died down. She picks up the canvas bag, hefts its weight, then sets it down again. She leaves first, slipping into the night without a backward glance, without a word of farewell.
He waits, listens to the drops on the roof, counts the seconds between lightning and thunder. The storm is moving away, taking its energy with it. The air is cooler now, cleaner, carrying the scent of rain-washed earth.
He steps out into the wet grass. The mill wheel still turns, the river still runs, unseen in the dark. Puddles reflect the sky, and the air tastes of rain and the promise of morning.
The path back to his shack is muddy, treacherous in the darkness. He walks carefully, feeling his way, his boots squelching in the wet earth.
The river waits, brown and swollen with rain, carrying the storm's runoff toward the sea. The night is quiet except for the drip of water from the trees, the distant call of a night bird, the soft whisper of the current against the bank.
He reaches his shack, pushes open the door, steps inside. The familiar smell of old wood and river air greets him. He lies down on the narrow bed, listens to the rain's last drops on the roof, and waits for sleep to come.
Outside, the night continues. The storm has washed the air clean.
Dawn breaks slow and gray, the street empty, the church steps slick with dew. The air is cool, carrying the scent of wet earth and river mist. The sound of his footsteps echoes off the empty buildings. He walks the path toward the square, finishing the last of his bread—hard but still edible.
A man sits on the church steps, coat damp, boots muddy, hands wrapped around his knees. He is older, his hair gray and unkempt, his face weathered by sun and wind. A canvas bag sits beside him, worn thin at the corners. He rocks slightly as he sits, his eyes fixed on the empty street.
He slows, nods. The man nods back, offers a seat with a gesture of his hand. The stone steps are cold and wet, but he sits, keeping distance between them. No words at first, just the quiet of the morning and the sound of birds stirring in the trees.
Then the stranger speaks, his voice soft, almost lost in the morning air. Something about the river, about letting go. The words are simple, unadorned, but they carry weight. He speaks of water that remembers, of things that must be released to find peace. His accent is familiar, his cadence measured. His fingers worry at a worn photograph, edges soft from handling.
"River knows," the man says. "Knows what we can't bear to know ourselves."
The words linger in the air. He listens without responding, watching the stranger's face, noting the lines around his eyes, the way his hands shake slightly in the morning cold.
Footsteps approach from the direction of the mill road—Eli's familiar gait. She moves with her usual restless energy, pausing at the edge of the square. For a moment she stands there, watching their gathering on the church steps, then circles to find a place to settle, keeping her distance but close enough to hear.
The church door opens with a creak. Ada steps out, a cup in her hand, steam rising from the hot liquid. She moves down the steps, her footsteps careful on the wet stone.
She sets the cup beside the stranger, says nothing for a moment. The steam rises between them, carrying the scent of coffee and warmth. Then, quietly, "Here you are, Josiah." Her voice is gentle, familiar.
The man—Josiah—looks up, his eyes meeting hers. He wraps his hands around the cup, lets the warmth seep into his fingers.
"Thank you, Ada," he says. His voice is stronger now, more present. "Kind to an old fool."
She shakes her head, dismissing the comment. "Coffee's not much. But it's hot."
A shadow moves at the church window—Brother Calvin watching. The shadow retreats, but its weight remains in Ada's shoulders, in the careful way she holds herself.
Ada stays on the step beside Josiah. She does not speak, but her presence steadies the morning. The light grows stronger. A rooster crows in the distance, and smoke rises from a chimney across the square.
Ada glances at the worn soles of his boots, the frayed edges of his coat. "Long way from anywhere," she says quietly.
Josiah nods, hands wrapped around the cup. "Long enough."
He watches the exchange.
A child runs past, chasing a dog. The dog barks, tail wagging, and the child laughs. The sound carries across the square, bright and clear. Josiah smiles.
The town stirs. A door open, a shutter creaks. Ada watches someone emerge from their house.
"Keeps going," Josiah says, more to himself than to her.
More movement at the edge of the square. Josiah's eyes drift toward the spot, and he speaks softly to the morning air. "River's not the only thing that remembers."
He watches the space between Ada and Josiah, the quiet that holds them.
More doors open. The butcher's cleaver sounds against his block. A cart rattles past, wheels squeaking. The day builds itself in pieces.
Josiah finishes his coffee, sets the cup down. He stands, shoulders his canvas bag. Ada rises too, takes the empty cup without comment.
"Where to?" she asks.
"Down the river," he says. "Always down."
He looks at the man beside him, their eyes meeting for a moment. "River's calling," he says. "Best to listen when it does."
He nods. Josiah glances to where Eli sits against the fence post, a cigarette burning between her fingers. She stands abruptly, flicks the cigarette into the dirt. Her boots scrape the stone as she walks away, shoulders tense. He speaks to the morning, his words carrying on the air. "River's not the only thing that remembers."
With that, Josiah walks away. Ada watches him go, then turns to him, but thinks better of it. Instead, she nods and returns to the church, the empty cup in her hand.
He stands, brushes the dampness from his clothes, and continues his walk through the town. Behind him, the church steps are empty again, marked only by the wet imprint of where people sat.
Evening settles over the town, the store nearly bare. The last light of autumn fades through the windows, painting everything amber and gold. Shelves stripped, only dust and a few sacks left. The glass jars are empty, their lids removed. Lamps burn low, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. Outside, the temperature drops with the sun, and a first hint of winter rides the evening breeze.
Ada sweeps, her movements slower than usual. The ledger lies closed on the counter, its pages thick with entries. Her hands move with effort, eyes dull. Lines mark her mouth, shoulders sagging.
The bell above the door chimes as he enters, hat in hand, eyes on the shelves—less there than before. Gaps where goods should be. The flour sacks are fewer, the shelves of patent medicines nearly empty. The store echoes with emptiness.
Ada looks up from her sweeping, nods without smiling. She steps to the counter, waiting. Her dress is clean but faded, her apron stained with the day's work. The lamp light catches the silver in her hair, making her look older than her years.
He points to the matches on the shelf, then to the lamp oil. She nods, understanding. His finger traces to one of the few remaining loaves of bread, wrapped in paper. Another nod.
She moves to the shelves, gathering what little remains. The box of matches rattles softly in her hands, the oil bottle catching lamplight. She measures the oil carefully, her movements precise despite her weariness. The scale tips, settles, and she makes a note in her ledger.
No words pass between them. Ada wraps his purchases in brown paper, her fingers working with practiced efficiency. The store creaks around them, settling into the evening quiet.
A child appears at the door, thin and silent. She is perhaps eight years old, her dress too large, her shoes held together with string. Her eyes are wide with hunger, her face pale with want. She does not speak, but her presence fills the doorway.
Ada glances at the child. She slips a loaf of bread into a bag, adds a small piece of cheese, and hands it over without a word. The child's eyes widen. Ada's hands shake slightly.
The child clutches the bag. She looks up at Ada, mouth opening as if to speak, then closes it again. A nod, a step backward.
Ada gestures gently toward the door, her expression soft but firm. The child disappears into the evening shadows. Ada returns to her sweeping, her movements more deliberate now.
Through the window, Eli stands outside, arms crossed. She watches the exchange, her face unreadable. He sees her there.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out more coins than his purchase requires. The miller's two bits, once cold in his palm, now warm from his body. He leaves them on the counter and pushes them toward Ada.
Ada looks at the coins, then at him. She lets them sit for a moment, then, with a small nod, she sweeps them into the drawer. The sound of metal against wood echoes in the empty store.
He takes his package, and moves toward the door. The bell chimes again as he steps outside, the sound fading into the evening air. Behind him, Ada continues her sweeping, preparing to close the store for another day.
The street is empty, lit only by light spilling from windows. A dog wanders past, sniffing at the ground, searching for scraps. The air is cool, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the distant river.
He walks home, bread under his arm, the river dark beside him. The water moves silently, its surface reflecting the last light of day. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle calls across the water.
At the edge of his yard, he pauses. The old crate by the fence sits empty, weathered by rain and sun. He sets his bag down on the crate, careful to keep the contents dry. Breaking off a portion of the bread, he leaves it.
Eli's shadow lingers nearby, a darker shape against the evening sky. She watches from the trees, her body tense, ready to flee if discovered. When he turns toward the shack, she steps forward, then stops.
He walks to his shack, and closes the door behind him. The latch clicks softly, and the evening settles into its familiar rhythm. Through the window, he can see the crate by the fence, waiting in the gathering darkness.
The river flows past, dark and silent. He lies on his narrow bed, listening to the sound of water against the bank. Outside, the night settles deeper. Somewhere across the water, a lantern flickers—Reed's boat moving in the darkness.
The dock creaks beneath his weight. The current moves silent, marked only by leaves and debris catching light. Mud and rot fill his nose.
The boat slides from the dark, Reed's oars barely touching water. The old man's strokes come slow and steady, his face calm in the lantern light.
Reed tilts his head. He steps into the boat. The wood rocks, finds its balance. The seat feels smooth and cold. Reed pushes off, and they slip from the dock.
They cross without words, the water lapping at hull-sides in rhythm. The lantern casts its circle against the vast dark, shadows shifting at its edge. The boat moves sure through the night, following paths Reed knows.
The far bank rises slow from black, the trees tangled overhead. Something waits there, small and strange in the mist. The shape could be person, could be stump, could be nothing. The lantern light catches movement—or shadow playing on water. Red flashes, gone.
Reed rows toward shore, oars steady. The boat scrapes mud with a soft sound. In the lantern's glow, Eli emerges from the shadows, her familiar shape becoming clear. She moves with careful steps down the muddy bank.
Boot-scrape on wet rock, then she steps into the boat with practiced ease. The craft rocks once, settles as Reed pushes off, turning downstream. A spirit-smell drifts between them, but Reed's hands stay true on oars.
The boat passes a fallen tree, its branches in water. The owls call and answer across the river. The night fills with small sounds—a turtle sliding from a log, something moving through reeds. The river carries its load—leaves, branches, an occasional bottle or cloth, all riding the current toward the sea.
Stone arches loom black above as they pass under the bridge. Their sound echoes brief against empty road.
A sound drifts over water—maybe humming, maybe river-voice rising falling. The tune sounds strange, like wind through the reeds. It stops, leaves water-murmur, starts again. Its source stays hidden in the dark.
They round the bend. A sand-spit shows in the lantern light. Reed steers through the shallows, the oars finding their way. The sand lies pale and fine, marked with night-creature tracks.
Nothing waits but driftwood and mud-smell. Marsh grass grows thick beyond, then tree-dark rises.
The water splashes shallow, sudden. Movement in the shallows catches the lantern light. Eli's shape melts into the darkness. Tobacco scent drifts faint on night air.
He raises his hand, palm open toward the darkness. A gesture small and brief, directed at her retreating form.
From the shadows comes her voice, quiet, uncertain. "Water's cold tonight." The words drift across the space between, unguarded, edge gone soft.
Reed nods once. He pushes from the sand, the boat rocking free. The old man turns downstream, the oars finding their rhythm.
He settles back in the stern. Behind them, the sand-spit fades to shadow. The water laps at hull-sides, a steady sound. Reed rows on through river-black, content in current's carry. Far off, dawn touches sky-edge pale.
First light bleeds into the river, the water still dark but softening to gray. He sits on the dock, feet dangling above the surface, watching night retreat. The stillness of early morning holds, broken only by an early bird's call across the water.
The shack behind him stands silent, its windows catching the first pale light. The stove is cold, its ashes settled. The bed lies untouched, narrow and waiting. On the table, bread and salt sit undisturbed, provisions for when hunger returns.
A train whistle sounds in the distance. The sound drifts across the water, then fades to the soft lap of waves against the dock. A fish jumps, rings spreading outward, disappearing into the current.
He watches darkness lift from the empty factory across the river. The building emerges slowly, its broken windows beginning to catch light. The girders stand stark against the lightening sky, still holding the shadows of those who climb through the ruins.
A moment passes. His hand lifts slightly from his knee, then settles back.
The sky shifts from black to deep blue, then to pearl gray, clouds catching the first hint of sun. Early swallows dive for insects above the water, their cries sharp in the dawn air. A heron stands motionless in the shallows, already at its morning vigil.
The river moves, slow and indifferent, carrying branches, leaves, the night's debris. A bottle bobs past, then a piece of wood worn smooth by water. Something red catches on the dock post—fabric, faded and torn, freed from whatever held it upstream. All flows downstream, toward the sea.
The air stays cool with night's remnants, carrying the scent of mud and dew-wet grass. Mist clings to the water's surface, thin wisps rising and dissolving. A dog barks somewhere in the sleeping town, then falls silent. The wind picks up, stirring the moisture-heavy leaves of the cottonwoods.
He stands, brushes dirt from his pants, listens to the hush over the water. The dock creaks beneath his feet, old wood still holding night's chill. He checks the fishing line—still empty, hook clean and waiting.
The path to the shack is damp with morning dew. He walks slowly, in no hurry to reach the door. The dawn fills with small sounds and retreating shadows.
Inside, the shack smells of old wood and river air. Pale light finds its way through the windows now, no lamp needed. The mirror above the basin reflects his face—stubble, weathered skin, gray eyes. Cold water against his face washes away the night.
The coffee tin sits on the shelf, coins making their thin sound as he counts them. Enough for today.
From the window, he watches the river brighten slowly, its surface textured by strengthening light. The factory emerges fully now.
Somewhere across the water, smoke rises—thin and blue against the morning sky, then disappears into the growing light.
He sits on the edge of the bed, removes his boots, sets them beside the door. The floor cool beneath his feet. Outside, the river continues its flow, carrying the night downstream.
An owl makes its last call from the trees as morning birds begin their chorus. Night hunters yield to day's creatures. He lies down on the narrow bed, pulls the thin blanket over him.
The chickens begin to stir in their coop. The shack creaks, wood warming in the morning air. The line hangs in the current, steady and waiting.