Echoes of 24 Hours

The river held us, its dark tide lapping at my waist, cold and unyielding, a mirror swallowing the rain's silver threads. Raisa's form had flickered—solid one moment, shadow the next—her laugh echoing as the water claimed her, or seemed to. I stood alone now, the necklace clutched in my hand, its heart pendant glinting faintly, a pulse against the mist. "Raisa?" I whispered, my voice a thread lost to the river's murmur, but the silence answered, heavy with her absence—or her presence, hidden just beyond reach.

The rain softened, a gentle shroud draping the bank, and I turned, searching the mist for her. The grass stretched gray and endless, the shed a distant scar against the trees, its rusted speaker silent for once. My legs trembled, soaked and aching, but I moved forward, the river's pull tugging at my heels, reluctant to let go. "You're still here," I said, my voice firm, a vow to the air, to her. "I felt you—I won't lose you again."

A sound—soft, broken—drifted from the water, a sigh or a sob, threading through the rain. I spun, heart leaping, and saw it: a ripple, faint but deliberate, spreading across the river's surface, her reflection shimmering there—her face, her eyes, green flecked with hazel, gazing up at me. "Lukas," she murmured, her voice rising from the depths, faint but real, a whisper woven with the current. I knelt, the water cold against my knees, and reached for her image, my fingers breaking the surface, scattering her into waves.

"Don't leave," I said, my voice raw, trembling. "I stepped in—I proved it—talk to me." Her reflection reformed, clearer now, her lips parting, her scar glinting in the mirrored light. "You stepped in," she said, her tone soft, curious, "but can you stay?" I froze, her question a weight sinking into me, and whispered, "Stay? In the river? With you?"

Her eyes held mine, unblinking, a mirror of my own doubt. "You broke the chains," she said, her voice rising, steadying, "but not the promise—what did you vow, Lukas? To save me, or to drown with me?" I flinched, the necklace burning in my palm, and stammered, "To save you—I carried you out, I faced the water—I'd die for you now, Raisa, if it means you live."

Her reflection rippled, her smile faint, bittersweet. "Die for me?" she echoed, her voice softening, a thread fraying. "You lived without me—13 years, Lukas. I counted every one." My chest caved, the 13 on the key flashing in my mind—13 steps, 13 years, 13 promises broken. "I didn't know," I said, tears blurring her face in the water. "I didn't count—I ran, I hid—but I'm here now, Raisa. I'll stay."

She tilted her head, her reflection wavering, and whispered, "Stay where? Here?" The river surged, a wave crashing against me, soaking my chest, and her voice grew sharp, insistent. "Look at me—really look. What do you see?" I stared, my hands trembling above the water, her face clear—too clear—her eyes alive, her skin pale, her hair floating like ink. But beneath, shadows coiled, her form dissolving into the depths, then reforming, a dance of light and dark.

"You're real," I said, my voice breaking, a plea to her, to myself. "I held you—I felt your laugh, your breath—" She cut me off, her tone firm, a spark flaring, "Did you? Or did you feel what you needed—what keeps you tethered to this river, to me?" I shook my head, fierce, splashing the water, her reflection scattering. "No—I broke the chains, I heard you—I won't let you be a ghost."

Her laughter rose, faint but alive, cutting through the mist. "A ghost?" she said, her voice softening, playful now, a glimpse of the Raisa I'd loved by the riverbank. "Maybe I am—maybe I'm not. But you, Lukas—you're still afraid." I leaned closer, my breath fogging the water, and said, "Afraid of losing you—of failing you again. Tell me what to do—tell me you're here."

Her reflection steadied, her eyes softening, and she murmured, "I'm here—wherever here is. But you—you're shaking again." I smiled, shaky but true, my tears falling into her image, rippling her face. "For you—always for you," I said, my voice steadying, a root taking hold. "I'll stay—I'll drown if I have to—just don't fade."

The river stilled, her reflection solidifying, and she whispered, "Then come closer." I hesitated, the water cold against my chest, but her hand—her reflection's hand—reached up, breaking the surface, fingers brushing mine, warm, real. "Raisa," I gasped, gripping her hand, pulling, the water parting as her form rose—solid, dripping, her chains gone, her eyes wide with wonder.

"Lukas," she said, standing before me, rain soaking her hair, her voice trembling, alive. "You stayed." I pulled her close, her body warm against mine, and whispered, "I promised." The mist thickened, the river's mirror empty now, and her laughter echoed—or the wind's—leaving me holding her, or her shadow, or nothing at all.