T“Oh, Ophelia, you’ve been on my mind, girl, since the flood.”
The river had not stopped whispering since dawn. It slid past the town like a long
memory, dark and reflective, carrying fragments of the past in its slow, patient
current. Mist hovered above the water, pale as breath on cold glass, and the air
smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang, its sound dull and heavy, as if even the metal felt tired.
I stood at the riverbank, the wooden planks beneath my boots slick with moisture. The water seemed alive, stretching its fingers toward the shore, beckoning. It mirrored the grey sky above, a sheet of trembling glass, broken only by falling leaves that landed like unspoken words. The wind brushed my skin softly, almost kindly, yet it carried a sharp chill that settled deep in my bones.
Ophelia lingered in my thoughts like a ghost who refused to leave. Her name tasted bitter and sweet at the same time, like rain on rusted iron. Memory wrapped around me, a tightening knot, pulling me backward with every heartbeat. The river hummed, personified grief singing an endless lullaby, while the reeds swayed in quiet sympathy.
Time moved strangely here. Seconds stretched like shadows at sunset, long and fragile. The world felt suspended, as if holding its breath. Even the air seemed to listen.
I turned away at last, leaving the river behind, but it followed me in sound and thought. Some floods do not recede. They live on inside us, reshaping the landscape of the heart, forever whispering a single name.