The morning began without color.
Even the River seemed exhausted — its surface dull, its murmur low and broken, like someone praying through a cough. Vale woke to silence and a faint sting in the air that tasted of salt.
The town had cried itself dry.
Leona stood by the bridge, the lamp unlit in her hands. Around her, the wind moved as if searching for the right direction. The River had always been a mirror, a voice, a memory. Today it was a scar — shining, but lifeless.
Nia joined her, eyes rimmed red from another sleepless night. "The wells are turning," she said. "The water's gone brackish. The children can't drink it."
Leona didn't answer. She stared into the current, where white residue crusted along the banks. "Salt," she murmured. "Like tears left too long."
Jonas came from the road, carrying his camera slung low. He looked pale, older than before. "It's not just the wells. The clinic's cistern's dry. Whatever current the River fed us — it's stopped."
Leona turned to him. "No. It's waiting."
"For what?" he asked.
"For forgiveness," she said, her voice distant. "The River gave it, but no one gave it back."
By noon the town square was restless again. People shouted over empty basins. Some knelt to pray, others accused, others wept. A few blamed Leona outright.
"She's the one who opened the ledgers!"
"She woke what should've stayed buried!"
"The River's punishing us!"
Leona stood on the fountain steps, the lamp cradled in both hands.
"The River doesn't punish," she said, steady. "It reveals."
But her voice broke on the last word. Because this time, even she could hear the River's silence — a silence that felt like grief.
Nia grabbed her arm. "Come. You can't reason with thirst."
They retreated to the cottage as the shouts rose behind them. Jonas followed, muttering, "They're scared. They'll turn on anything that looks like faith."
Inside the cottage, the portrait of Miriam still glowed — faint, but alive. Leona lit the lamp and set it beside the frame.
"Mother," she whispered, "what do I do when forgiveness stops flowing?"
For a long time, the portrait didn't move. Then the flame inside flickered — a slow pulse, like the memory of a heartbeat.
Her mother's voice came faintly, barely audible:
Forgiveness dries when gratitude forgets to drink.
Leona's eyes burned. "Then Vale's forgotten."
The lamp's flame stretched toward her, thin as a needle of light.
Remind them.
At dusk, Leona carried the lamp back to the River. The air had grown thick and strange, carrying the scent of salt and soot. The water was low — so low that the stones of the riverbed showed like ribs beneath skin. She stepped into the shallows, cold biting through her boots, and raised the lamp high.
"Vale!" she shouted toward the square. "Come and see what we've done to the gift!"
People came — drawn by fear, curiosity, shame. Hundreds gathered on the bank, watching as the River glimmered faintly under the dying sun.
"This River once burned for us!" Leona cried. "It gave us light, it gave us mercy! And we gave it suspicion, and anger, and forgetting!"
Her voice cracked, but she went on.
"You want forgiveness? You have to return it. The River can't breathe alone."
A murmur swept the crowd — disbelief, then guilt. Some turned away. Others dropped to their knees. A boy stepped forward, holding a bowl of fresh water drawn from his family's well. He poured it slowly into the River. The current took it, shivered once, and the faintest pulse of blue rippled downstream.
Then a woman followed, then another, until the whole town was kneeling, emptying whatever clean water they had into the River's mouth. Basins, jugs, cups, tears — every drop given back.
The River drank it all, quietly.
And then, finally, it moved.
The wind shifted. A low hum rose from the current — first tremor, then tone, like the beginning of a song trying to find its melody. The salt lines along the bank began to dissolve, hissing softly as they vanished. Light returned to the water, faint gold deepening into blue.
Jonas whispered, "It's waking."
Leona sank to her knees. "It's forgiving us for forgetting."
Nia caught her arm. "No. It's forgiving us for believing we could hold forgiveness like property."
The River brightened, and suddenly every reflection returned — not faces this time, but moments: the clinic doors reopening, the bridge unbroken, children laughing with clean hands. The River was giving them back their memories — rinsed, redeemed.
But mercy always asks for something in return.
At the center of the current, the water formed a whirlpool, small at first, then widening. From its heart rose an object — dark, dripping, heavy — the frame of Miriam's first painting. The one thought lost in the fire.
It floated toward Leona, bumping gently against her knee. She lifted it from the water. The canvas was ruined, the paint blistered, yet something glowed faintly beneath the char. A single surviving image — her mother's hand holding the lamp.
The frame shuddered once in her grip, and for an instant she felt warmth, a pulse, a goodbye.
"Mama?" she whispered.
The River's current whispered back.
Forgiveness is water, Leona. But even water must rest.
The glow faded. The frame went still — not dead, only finished.
Leona held it close, her tears falling silently onto the scorched wood. Salt and ash. Both parts of the same memory.
That night, Vale lit candles along the riverbank — not as offerings, but as gratitude. The air smelled of wax and wet earth, the taste of renewal lingering on every tongue.
Leona stood apart from the crowd, the burnt frame in her hands, her mother's portrait behind her. Jonas took one last photograph — not of faces, but of the river itself, its surface carrying stars.
Nia approached quietly. "She'd be proud."
Leona nodded. "She already is. The River's her voice now."
They watched as the water shimmered, light sliding beneath its skin like thought. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't whole — but it was alive.
And for the first time since the burning, Leona smiled without ache.
Because mercy, she finally understood, didn't die when it dried.
It simply waited for hands brave enough to dig a new well.