The River That Remembers

“There are prayers too quiet for words—prayers that rise like mist off water, clinging to nothing, asking only to be heard.”

Noah and I walked hand in hand back to the camp, a heavy silence hanging between us, a silence that once might have felt companionable, even sacred. But now, it was weighty—sodden with all the words we weren’t ready to speak.

The dry wind skimmed across the sand, tugging at the loose strands of my hair and lifting the hem of my skirt. I barely noticed. My thoughts were elsewhere—tangled and raw, caught between fear and longing, faith and doubt.

I clung to Noah’s hand, my grip firm, my fingers threaded tightly through his. There was a steadiness to him, even in silence. His presence grounded me in a way nothing else could in this unfamiliar world. The warmth of his touch, the rhythm of his steps beside mine—these small, quiet things were all that tethered me to sanity.

Every so often, his thumb would graze the back of my hand in a slow, unconscious motion. A wordless reassurance. A reminder that I was not alone, even when everything else felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

The camp still lay some distance ahead, a faint scatter of shapes and shadows on the horizon. But already I could see the faint wisps of smoke curling into the sky from the morning’s fire, smell the dry tang of dust mixed with ash, and hear the occasional clang of metal or soft murmur of conversation.

Each step drew us closer to safety, and yet my heart remained restless. I felt like a ghost walking through someone else’s life—half-present, half-lost.

Still, I walked on, hand in hand with the man I loved, praying that somehow, together, we could find our way through this strange land—back to each other, back to hope.

Approaching the camp, I couldn't help but be struck by the eerie tranquillity that seemed to blanket the area—a deceptive calm that stood in stark contrast to the frenetic energy that buzzed around the Portal like a hive of angry bees. The camp appeared almost still from a distance, as though caught in the hush of anticipation before a storm. Yet beneath that surface lay the undercurrent of relentless effort—audible in the distant hammering, and the sharp staccato of screws driven into metal.

The hot breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the dry, metallic tang of tools at work and the occasional crackle of a fire being stoked. Every sound reminded me that this place—unfamiliar though it was—was slowly, stubbornly being shaped into something resembling a home.

My eyes found Karen standing slightly apart from the rest, deep in discussion with a cluster of settlers. Their heads were bowed together, their faces drawn with focus and resolve. They pored over thick folders and maps, their fingers tracing lines and tapping sections as if their very survival depended on it. Perhaps it did.

There was a quiet intensity to the way they worked, a purposefulness that I could neither dismiss nor quite admire without a twinge of discomfort. I had found Karen odd—her stillness, her detachment, the way she looked at people like she was sizing up their usefulness rather than truly seeing them. Yet, in this moment, watching her speak with such conviction, I felt something stir inside me.

A pang—sharp, unbidden—pierced my chest.

It was envy. Not of Karen herself, but of the sense of belonging she seemed to exude, the unwavering clarity of her purpose. Even here, in this broken place, she had a role, a task, a direction. And I? I felt like an afterthought—adrift, irrelevant, watching the world rebuild itself from behind an invisible glass.

The thought made my throat tighten. My pace slowed. I looked down, away from the confident gestures and the purposeful chatter, ashamed of the welling emotion that threatened to choke me. My breath caught as I swallowed it back, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes.

I hated feeling this way—fragile, uncertain, lost. But the tears, cruel and stubborn, pressed forward anyway, blurring the lines of the world around me as I struggled to hold on to whatever fragments of composure I had left.

Noah, perhaps sensing my distress, gave my hand a gentle squeeze—a wordless gesture of comfort and support that made my heart ache with gratitude and love. He knew me better than anyone, understood the fears and doubts that plagued me, even when I couldn’t summon the strength to voice them aloud. His touch, warm and steady, grounded me in a way that little else could in this strange and shifting world.

“Why don’t we take a walk down to the river?” he suggested softly, his voice low and soothing, like the familiar rhythm of a hymn once sung in quiet reverence. “It might do you some good to get away from all this for a bit, to find some peace and quiet.”

I paused, caught in the web of hesitation that had entangled me so often since we arrived. The mere thought of leaving the relative security of the camp, of stepping further into the unknown without the thin comfort of routine or the reassuring presence of my children, caused a shiver to crawl down my spine. What if something happened while we were gone? What if Charles came through the Portal and I wasn’t there to greet him?

But then I looked into Noah’s eyes—those steady, weathered eyes that had seen the best and worst of me—and something within me softened. There was love there, yes, but also a quiet confidence, a kind of faith that we would find our way forward even in this desolate place. And in that moment, I clung to it.

“All right,” I said at last, my voice little more than a whisper, as though too much volume might unravel the delicate threads of calm I had only just begun to gather. “But only for a little while. I don’t want to be gone too long, in case Charles arrives.”

Noah nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Without another word, he began to lead me down the narrow, winding path that curled away from the camp, towards the river that snaked through the Clivilian landscape like a silver thread.

The further we walked, the more distant the noise of construction and conversation became, until at last it was replaced by the gentle babble of water dancing over stones. The sound wrapped around us, soft and hypnotic, a lullaby that seemed to ease the knot of tension coiled in my chest.

For the first time in what felt like days, I allowed myself to breathe.

The water sparkled in the bright Clivilian sun, a shimmering ribbon of silver that stretched out before us like a promise of hope and renewal. It glistened as if it had never known sorrow, as though its quiet persistence could cleanse even the heaviest burdens from a weary soul.

I closed my eyes, letting the gentle breeze caress my face, the soft whispers of the shifting sands a soothing lullaby that quietened the noise in my mind. For a moment—just a moment—I could almost forget where I was. I could almost pretend that everything was as it had always been, that life hadn’t unravelled into something incomprehensible, that our world hadn't been twisted by forces I could neither see nor control.

But the illusion was short-lived, easily pierced by the sound of Noah’s voice—soft, gentle, and yet threaded with a quiet urgency that made my heart skip a beat.

“Why don’t you stay here for a bit?” he suggested, his hand still clasped tightly in mine, anchoring me to the present, to the truth of where we were. “Take some time to yourself, to find some peace and clarity. I need to get back to the Portal, to help with the food storage and make sure everything is running smoothly.”

I felt panic flutter in my chest, a rising tide of dread at the thought of being alone again, even for a little while. I didn’t want him to go. I wanted to hold on, to keep him beside me, to cling to the one thread of familiarity that still grounded me. But even as the words of protest gathered on my tongue, I swallowed them. I knew he was right—there was work to be done, responsibilities that needed tending, even in this surreal and broken place.

“All right,” I said at last, my voice thin and trembling as I fought to keep the rising emotion from spilling over. “But promise me you’ll come back as soon as Charles arrives. I don’t want to be apart from either of you for a moment longer than necessary.”

Noah’s smile was soft and reassuring, his eyes warm with a love that reached across the gulf of uncertainty and held me close. “I promise,” he said, his voice low and fervent, each word weighted with sincerity. “As soon as Charles sets foot in Clivilius, I’ll bring him straight to you. You have my word.”

I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay as I watched him turn away. His figure receded with every step, his silhouette shimmering in the rippling waves of heat that danced above the dry earth until, at last, he was gone—swallowed by the relentless Clivilian sun.

And then I was alone.

The stillness settled around me, the silence broken only by the gentle rustling of the wind as it stirred the dry dust. The soft babble of the river at my feet provided the only sound that felt alive, a subtle, persistent rhythm that mirrored the quiet pulse of hope within my chest.

I sank down onto a nearby rock, the rough edge pressing against the backs of my thighs as my legs threatened to give way beneath me. My hands rested limply in my lap, my fingers twitching with nerves I couldn’t quell. I drew in a shaky breath and tried to calm the tremor in my jaw, to steady the thrum of panic that pulsed behind my ribs.

Noah's promise still echoed in my mind, a fragile thread of comfort I clung to with everything I had left. But the weight of it—of everything—was so heavy, pressing down on me like the very sky had lowered itself to rest on my shoulders.

I stared out across the barren stretch of land, my gaze fixed on the wavering line of the horizon where the sky kissed the desert floor. My thoughts raced, tumbling over one another in a tangle of fear and doubt. A thousand different scenarios churned in my mind—each one darker than the last. What if Charles changed his mind? What if the Portal failed? What if something happened before he made it through?

And always, beneath those thoughts, a deeper dread stirred—something unseen but approaching, slow and relentless, like thunder rolling just beyond the hills. I could feel it in my bones. Something was coming. Something that would challenge us all in ways we could scarcely imagine. A storm not of weather, but of spirit—a trial of the soul.

And so I prayed.

My lips moved without sound, shaping the familiar words of entreaty as I turned inward, seeking connection with the divine in the stillness around me. I prayed for Charles—for his safe passage, his resilience, his heart. I prayed that he would have the courage to face this new world and the wisdom to make it his own.

I prayed for Noah—for strength, for clarity, for the patience to lead us, not as a prophet or a patriarch, but as a man who loved deeply and sacrificed much.

But most of all, I prayed for myself. For the grace to accept what I could not control. For serenity to breathe through the fear and find purpose in the unknown. For wisdom—to know when to fight and when to let go.

As I sat beneath the wide expanse of the Clivilian sky, I knew in my soul that faith was the only lantern I had to carry through this barren wilderness. It flickered, yes, but it had not gone out. And in its fragile glow, I could almost believe there was a path ahead, winding out of the shadow and into whatever lay waiting just beyond the next rise.