Evening came softly, unannounced.The sky turned the color of old copper, fading into violet near the horizon. A faint breeze moved through the tall reeds, making them whisper against one another. The river carried that whisper forward, turning it into a song that no one could quite remember but everyone somehow knew.
I followed the path down from the hill until the earth grew darker and damp beneath my feet. The air was cooler here, touched by water. Somewhere nearby, a bullock bell clinked lazily. The faint smell of woodsmoke hung in the air — distant, comforting, almost human.
When I reached the riverbank, the world seemed to pause.The water flowed slowly, silver where it caught the light, dark where shadows from the trees touched it. The last of the sun hung low, caught between branches. Ripples spread across the surface, distorting the reflection of the sky into trembling shapes of gold and violet.
I sat on a flat rock near the edge. The stone still held the warmth of the day.The sound of the current was steady — not loud, but deep, like breath drawn in sleep. Every now and then, a fish broke the surface with a faint splash, leaving rings that shimmered briefly before vanishing.
On the opposite bank, children were still playing — their laughter faint but bright, echoing like birdsong over the water. They chased each other through the shallows, their feet flashing silver. A man called out to them from a distance, his voice stretched thin by the evening air, but they didn't listen. Dusk belonged to them.
The scent of wet earth grew stronger as the light dimmed.Nearby, a cluster of small flowers — white and pale blue — had begun to close their petals for the night. Their fragrance mingled with the cool smell of the river and the faint sweetness of decaying leaves. A dragonfly skimmed the surface, its wings catching the last light before it vanished into the reeds.
Somewhere behind me, a temple bell rang once, long and low. The sound rolled across the water like a sigh. Then silence followed — wide and tender, as if the earth itself was listening.
I watched the current move around a half-submerged branch, slow and certain. The water seemed endless — not because of its size, but because of its patience. Every stone, every ripple, every reflection moved with quiet purpose. There was no haste, no pause, only the rhythm of continuance.
After a while, an old man appeared on the path. He carried a small brass pot and walked with deliberate care. He didn't seem surprised to see me, only nodded before stepping to the edge. Kneeling, he dipped the pot into the river, his reflection rippling beside him. He murmured something softly — words too low to hear — then poured the water back. The gesture was small, yet it felt ancient, larger than the moment itself.
When he left, his footprints filled slowly with water and disappeared.
The sun was gone now. The sky deepened to indigo. A thin line of orange lingered along the horizon, glowing faintly against the dark. The river caught that color and held it, breaking it into tiny fragments of moving light. Fireflies began to appear — small, drifting embers of green. They floated over the reeds, blinked once or twice, then vanished.
The children's laughter had faded. Only the river spoke now.It murmured to the stones, to the reeds, to the sleeping sky — a voice that had no beginning or end. I found myself listening for meaning in that murmur, but there was none. Only rhythm. Only the steady promise of return.
The first stars appeared, trembling above the dark outline of trees. The wind shifted, carrying a faint chill. The smell of the night had changed — less of earth, more of sky.
I dipped my hand into the water. It was cold, smoother than glass. The current tugged gently, as if urging me onward.For a moment, I imagined where it would go — past the fields, the towns, the hills; through places that had never heard my name; all the way to where the land finally ended, and the river met something larger than itself.
When I drew my hand back, droplets clung to my fingers, catching starlight before they fell. The sound they made was small — a kind of punctuation to the silence.
I stayed until the fireflies became too many to count, until the last glow faded from the sky, until the world became a single color — dark, living blue.
When I finally rose, the river still moved with the same slow grace, carrying away reflections, returning nothing but sound.
And as I walked back along the path, the whisper of water followed — a voice that said nothing, and somehow said everything.