A STORY JUST FOR ME

The village woke quietly that morning, dew still clinging to the grass like a secret not yet spoken. I heard it first—the distant hum of cicadas, the rustle of clothes being hung to dry, and the soft clinks of porcelain as breakfast was being prepared.

But you were still asleep.

Curled beneath a thin woven blanket, you looked younger somehow. Maybe it was the way your lashes curled slightly at the tips, or the peace on your face—like the shadows of the bridge hadn't followed you into your dreams last night. It made me smile. I sat at the edge of the small mat, just watching the sunlight crawl slowly across your cheek.

"You're awake, aren't you?" I whispered.

You murmured something. Not quite a word—maybe my name? Or maybe you were still dreaming. I didn't mind. I just wanted to watch you a little longer.

Our savior's house was humble but warm, tucked near the edge of the village like it was always meant to be a halfway point between the living and something more forgotten. He wasn't home yet. He had gone to the market earlier and left us with a small task.

"Help me carry the bundles this afternoon," he said. "You'll see what the village truly is when it's busy."

I thought it would be simple. But this story... never gives us anything simple.

It was almost noon when we finally stepped out into the village square. The sun hung lazily overhead, soft heat blooming across the stone path. You walked beside me, your steps still slightly unsure—your body still recovering, your heart even more so.

"Are we really okay to help him?" you asked quietly, eyeing the villagers.

They looked at us, not with malice—not yet—but with the kind of distant curiosity reserved for passing storms.

"We'll be fine," I answered, smiling gently. "Let's just help him today. Then we'll rest more, I promise."

You nodded, brushing your hand through your hair. You didn't notice it, but your fingers trembled.

Our savior greeted us with a small grin, wiping sweat from his brow. "You're just in time," he said, handing us a basket of dried herbs and carved trinkets.

We helped him set up his stall, organizing each item carefully as he showed us how to barter without offending anyone. The market was vibrant—colorful clothes flapped in the wind, and children darted between the legs chasing each other, laughter echoing like wind chimes.

That's when she appeared.

A little girl in a pale blue dress, hair tied in two lopsided buns. She stood near the river's edge, holding a round toy that looked like a floating paper fish. Her eyes met yours—large, curious, and a bit too still.

And then the wind picked up.

The toy slipped from her hands and tumbled into the river.

She looked at you, wide-eyed. Her lips didn't move, but you swore she said —

"Please... help."

You moved instinctively, stepping off the market path and toward the riverbank. I followed, not understanding yet.

"Wanderer?" I called. "Where are you going?"

"That girl... she dropped her toy. It's floating away."

The river shimmered as you approached it. Not violently. Not dark. But with a low, rhythmic glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. The villagers stopped. All eyes turned toward you.

But you didn't see them.

You stepped into the water.

Just one step.

And the moment your foot touched the surface, it glowed.

Blue.

Pale.

Ancient.

Like the river recognized you—not as a stranger, but as something long lost.

I felt it in my bones. So did the villagers.

The girl smiled.

And vanished.

You froze. Your fingers are still outstretched. The paper fish floated back to you, untouched.

You picked it up slowly. "Eui... she was just here."

"I know," I said. "I saw her too."

Whispers rose behind us. Murmurs. Someone gasped. An elder dropped her basket.

Our savior ran toward us, panic on his face.

"You stepped into the river?" he asked, eyes wide. "You saw her? The girl?"

You nodded. You looked pale.

He looked at the glowing water and then back at you—like you'd just spoken with a god.

"You weren't supposed to see her," he whispered. "She hasn't shown herself in years. Not since..."

"Since what?" I asked.

He looked away.

"Not here. Not now. Come. Before it's too late."

That night, we sat in silence.

You held the paper fish gently in your lap. You hadn't said much since the market. I understood. The weight of the river clung to us both.

"She was... kind," you said at last. "But she wasn't alive."

I nodded slowly. "No. She wasn't."

You looked at me. Your voice was barely a whisper.

"Then why did it feel like she was trying to save me?"

And I didn't know how to answer that.

But the river did.

Because that night, in our dreams, we heard it.

A song.

Soft.

Lonely.

Calling us back.