The Afternoon the River Forgot Our Shadows

The ferry rope slipped from the post with a sound like breath leaving a body. She felt it before she saw it and turned too late to stop the slow unspooling. The boat eased away from the bank and the river accepted it as if it had been waiting. She stood with one hand still lifted and the other pressed against her coat, watching the distance open without violence. The water moved on. The moment had already chosen its shape.

Catherine Louise Beaumont remained on the landing while the ferry drifted toward the opposite shore. Her full legal name felt formal and unused, the kind spoken by clerks and written at the top of documents that asked for permanence. It did not fit the afternoon. It belonged to a version of her that believed in return. She lowered her hand and let the rope sink.

The river smelled of silt and green growth and the faint iron of the chain. Birds lifted and settled again. The bank behind her held the marks of many feet and many departures. She had crossed here all her life. Today she did not cross.

The second scene had begun months earlier when the water ran low and the stones showed themselves. Catherine had been sent with ledgers from the mill to the warehouse on the far side. She waited for the ferry and listened to the river speak to itself. When the boat arrived a man stepped off and paused as if measuring the place.

Andrew Michael Serrano introduced himself with care and all three names as if they might be needed later. He said he was here to oversee shipments for the season. He said it like a temporary thing. Catherine nodded and handed the ferryman the fee. She watched Andrew step aboard again and noticed the way he looked at the water as if listening.

They crossed together in silence. The ferry rocked gently. The river carried sound differently here and their footsteps seemed closer than they were. When they reached the far bank he thanked her and said Catherine Louise Beaumont with a precision that surprised her. She answered with his full name in return. The exchange created a distance they both respected.

The third scene unfolded over the weeks that followed as summer gathered itself. Andrew came to the mill often and Catherine learned the pattern of his visits. He asked questions that showed attention. He listened to the answers without rushing. She spoke of weights and schedules and the way the river rose after rain. He spoke of ports farther down and the work that kept him moving. Neither spoke of staying.

One evening the heat lingered and the mill doors stood open. Dust hung in the light. Catherine sat on a crate and wrote figures while Andrew checked seals. When he finished he stood beside her and watched the river through the open door. He said it held its course better than most. She said it forgot nothing. He smiled and said that was a kind of memory he trusted.

They began to walk together to the ferry at the end of the day. The town softened around them. The sound of water followed. They spoke of small things and sometimes of nothing. The restraint between them became a shared practice. It felt deliberate and safe.

That night Catherine lay awake listening to the river from her window. The recurring sensory motif of sound pressed against her thoughts. Water against bank. A distant call. She thought of his voice and the way it fit into the evening without asking for space.

The fourth scene arrived with a storm that swelled the river and changed its color. The ferry was tied fast and the crossing delayed. Catherine and Andrew stood under the shelter and watched the rain stitch the surface. The wind pressed in. He said he might leave sooner than planned if the shipments were finished early. He said it without apology.

She nodded and asked when the water might fall. He said soon again. The word settled between them like a thin bridge. He reached for the rope to check the knot and their hands met. The contact was brief and unmistakable. He withdrew first. She felt the absence immediately. Neither spoke. The emotional cost arrived and stayed.

When the rain eased they walked back toward town. The river ran high and loud. Catherine felt the sound move through her chest. She wondered when sound became memory and when memory learned to hurt.

The fifth scene belonged to late summer evenings when the river calmed and the days shortened. Andrew told her the shipments were nearly complete. He said another port waited. He said he would leave within the week. The words were plain. The meaning arrived slower.

They crossed together one last time at dusk. The ferry slid and bumped gently. The ferryman hummed. Catherine watched the wake open and close behind them. Andrew stood close enough that she could feel warmth without touch. He spoke of writing. She spoke of reading. They avoided promises. The restraint had matured into something like acceptance.

On the far bank he stopped and turned to her. He said he was glad for the river here. He said it had taught him something. She asked what. He said how to pause. The answer surprised her. She smiled and felt the cost of it.

The sixth scene returned to the opening afternoon. The ferry stood ready. Andrew carried a small bag. Catherine held the rope. The river moved with its familiar patience. He stepped aboard and looked back once. She loosened her grip and felt the rope slide. The ferry eased away. The water accepted it.

He raised his hand and then lowered it. She stood until the boat reached the opposite bank and became part of the shore. The recurring motif of sound narrowed to the water and her breath. She said Andrew Michael Serrano aloud and felt the name lose its edge.

Near the ending she remained on the landing long after the crossing was done. The sun shifted. Shadows changed and then disappeared into the water. She understood then that the river forgot them as quickly as it received them. She turned and walked back toward town carrying the knowledge without explanation. Catherine Louise Beaumont crossed the street and listened to the river continue without her.