The House by the River

There was a small house by the river, hidden among tall willows and drifting mist. No one lived there anymore, but sometimes at night, a faint light glowed from the window, soft and golden, as if someone were still home.

The villagers said it was haunted, that the spirit of a young woman lingered there, waiting for someone who would never return. Most avoided the path that led to the house, but one evening, a man named Daniel followed it.

He was a writer searching for silence. The city had become too loud, his thoughts too heavy. The little house by the river seemed perfect. When he arrived, the door opened easily, as if it had been waiting for him.

Inside, everything was quiet. Dust lay thick on the floor, but the air smelled faintly of lilac and rain. He found a candle, lit it, and sat by the window to watch the water flow under the moonlight.

That was when he heard her voice.

“You came back.”

He turned sharply. A woman stood at the far end of the room, pale and beautiful, her hair drifting like smoke. Her eyes were soft and full of something he could not name.

“I am sorry,” Daniel said quickly. “I did not mean to intrude.”

She tilted her head. “You always say that.”

He frowned. “Have we met?”

“In another life, perhaps,” she said. “You used to sit here, writing by this very window. I would bring you tea, and you would tell me about your stories. You said you would never leave me.”

Daniel felt a chill, though the air was still. “That cannot be. I have never been here before.”

She smiled sadly. “Souls remember what minds forget.”

He should have been afraid, but her presence felt familiar, comforting, like the memory of a song half remembered.

Night after night, Daniel stayed. Each evening she appeared, and they spoke of simple things. The river. The stars. The stories he wrote. He began to wait for her voice, for the sound of her footsteps, for the scent of lilac that filled the room before she came.

One night he asked her, “Who are you really?”

She looked at him for a long time. “Once, I was your wife. You promised to find me when the river turned silver. You drowned before you could.”

He shook his head, his heart pounding. “That cannot be true.”

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his cheek. “And yet, you came back. You always do.”

Her touch was cold, but he did not pull away. He looked into her eyes and saw flashes of another life. A wedding by the river. A hand slipping from his as the water rose. The same house, the same promise whispered under the stars.

Tears filled his eyes. “If I died, why am I here?”

“Because love does not rest,” she said. “It remembers even when the heart forgets.”

The candle flickered. The walls seemed to fade. The sound of the river grew louder, as if calling them both.

“I do not want to leave you again,” he said.

“Then stay,” she whispered. “But if you stay, you will never wake again. This place is not for the living.”

He looked at her hand, still resting on his. “Then let it be our home.”

She smiled, and the light around her grew brighter. The river outside shimmered like silver glass, and for a moment the house felt alive again, warm and full of laughter.

When morning came, the villagers saw smoke rising from the chimney of the old house by the river. They said someone must have moved in at last. But when they went to look, the house was empty.

Only two cups sat by the window, still warm, and a faint scent of lilac lingered in the air.

And when the moon rose that night, a light glowed once more in the window, soft and golden, as if two souls were still there, watching the river flow, together at last.