What the River Takes

Margot stood on her porch at dawn, the old tabby cat winding through her legs, purring like a small engine against her ankles. Three months since Elias died, and the house still held too much silence. She watched the mist rise off the river behind their property—the same river where they'd scattered his ashes, where he'd taught her to skip stones, where he'd fallen through the ice十年 ago and laughed until his lips turned blue.

She couldn't bear another Sunday of well-meaning friends dropping off casseroles and asking how she was holding up. They meant well. But their concern felt like weights tied to her ankles.

The cat meowed, impatient for breakfast. Margot bent to stroke his head, his fur warm and alive. Elias had found him as a stray, mangy and starving, brought him home with that crooked grin of his. 'Can't leave him out there, M. Look at those eyes. Like he knows things.'

She stepped off the porch in her bare feet, dew soaking the hem of her nightgown. The river surged below, dark and relentless. Some mornings she wanted to walk straight in, let the current take her wherever it took Elias. Not to die—she wasn't suicidal—but to follow.

Instead she watched a black bear emerge from the treeline, a massive shadow moving through the mist. It dipped its head to drink, powerful shoulders rolling beneath its fur. Elias would have grabbed his camera. Would have stood there transfixed, whispering about how you never saw them this close, how they were usually shy, how this was extraordinary.

Margot stood still, her breath shallow. The bear lifted its head, looked toward her, then turned and vanished back into the trees.

The cat brushed against her leg again, anchoring her to the present. Somewhere inside, Elias's camera sat on the shelf, memory card full of moments he'd captured but couldn't keep himself alive for. She turned back to the house, to the coffee she'd brew, to the day she'd somehow get through. The river kept moving. So would she.