4067 :
Some say she was never born, only gathered , made of river mist, glassy starlight, and the whispered regrets of the city’s dreaming walls. She is not a woman. She is not a ghost. She is what grief becomes when it waits too long. Children swear they’ve seen her blink. That her hair, tangled in algae, sometimes flows against the current. That when you lean over the bridge and whisper your name, she keeps it until you forget yourself. Lovers toss coins into the water and make promises she keeps better than they do. And though her eyes never close, she sleeps beneath the river’s indifferent gaze. She is neither here nor gone an absence made flesh, the space where memory dissolves into oblivion. She is the silence after the last word is spoken, the weight of all the things we cannot hold,
and the ache of all the things we refuse to see. In her stillness, she carries the fragile truth: that some grief is not meant to be healed, but only carried quietly, endlessly until the river itself forgets to remember.
2025-07-05 03:39:07