The river twisted around the landscape, much like how time weaves through our lives, carrying with it pieces forgotten yet familiar. The sound of flowing water echoed a rhythm of unspoken stories, each ripple a memory, each current a fragment of what once was.

People often reminisce about the paths they walked by the water's edge, meeting shadows of old friends with whom they'd shared dreams that drifted downstream, perhaps to find new shores. But often, these memories are less complete, assembled from visions fleeting like mist.

A neighbor once told me about a time when she took a boat on the river, a sliver of an afternoon that slipped into the evening and was forever etched into her mind, along with the scents of earth and willow trees. Sometimes fragments like these come to mind, unanchored to specific dates, simply impressions left by the current.