The river did not rush.
It moved with the patience of something that knew it would arrive eventually.
From the monastery ridge, it appeared as a thin silver thread cutting through stone and forest, catching light where clouds parted. It looked harmless from above. But Jeevan knew better.
"Rivers take many names as they go down," he said, adjusting the strap of his pack. "People forget they are the same water."
Kannan stood at the edge of the descent, Akshay's note folded carefully into his pocket. The words had settled inside him—not as grief anymore, but as direction.
I will follow the river.
Arun stepped beside him.
"This part will be harder," he said quietly. "Not the walking. The not-knowing."
Kannan nodded. "That's how he lived. I can live it for a while."
They began the descent.
The path followed the river loosely, sometimes close enough to hear it sliding over stone, sometimes disappearing into thick forest where only its presence could be felt—cooler air, damp earth, the smell of moss.
The mountains softened as they went down. Sharp rock gave way to terraced fields. Pines thinned into broad-leaf trees. Small wooden bridges appeared, then dirt tracks wide enough for mules.
Signs of life.
Sara noticed it first.
"Look," she said, pointing to a flat rock near the water.
Charcoal marks. Old, almost erased by rain.
A circle.
Not perfectly round. Slightly broken on one side.
Ravi crouched beside it.
"He rested here," he said. "Long enough to sit. Long enough to draw."
Kannan knelt slowly, placing his palm beside the faded line.
"You were tired here," he murmured. "But you didn't stop."
They found more as they descended.
A stick wedged between stones, arranged deliberately.A scrap of cloth tied to a low branch.A small pile of pebbles stacked carefully near a bend in the river.
Not signals meant to be found quickly.
Markers meant to say: I was here.
By afternoon, they reached the first village.
A cluster of stone houses hugged the valley floor. Goats wandered freely. Smoke curled from cooking fires. Children ran barefoot along the riverbank, shouting to one another in a mix of Nepali and local dialects.
Life, unremarkable and precious.
The group drew attention—not suspicion, just curiosity.
An elderly man sitting outside a tea shop watched them approach. His face was deeply lined, eyes sharp despite his age.
Jeevan greeted him respectfully.
"Namaste, Kaka. We're looking for a boy who passed through here some years ago."
The old man squinted.
"Many boys pass through," he said. "Few stay."
Kannan stepped forward and held out the photograph—the one from the ridge outpost.
The man took it, studying it carefully.
Then he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I remember him."
Kannan's breath caught, but he did not rush this time.
"Can you tell me how?" he asked.
The man smiled faintly.
"He came with the river," he said. "Barely speaking. Fevered. Thin as bamboo."
Sara closed her eyes briefly.
"He stayed for three days," the man continued. "Helped my daughter carry water. Watched the younger children like an old soul."
Kannan swallowed hard.
"Did he say his name?"
"Yes. Akshay," the man replied. "And something else."
Arun leaned forward. "What?"
"He said he was waiting for no one anymore," the man said. "He said if his Appa came, the river would tell him."
Kannan felt something loosen in his chest.
"He learned how to live without me," he whispered.
The man handed back the photograph.
"He left with a trader heading south," he added. "Said he wanted to follow the river until it became a road."
Nish exhaled slowly.
"That narrows it," he said. "Downstream towns. Larger markets."
"But," the old man said, raising a finger, "there is something else."
Everyone stilled.
"He did not leave as a child."
Kannan looked up.
"He cut his hair. Asked for work. Told people he was older than he was."
Sara's voice trembled. "He was becoming invisible."
The man nodded. "That is how you survive."
They rested near the river that evening.
The sound of water moving over stone filled the silence between them—not heavy, not dramatic. Just constant.
Kannan sat apart for a while, watching the current.
Arun joined him, handing him a cup of tea.
"You're quieter," Arun said.
Kannan nodded.
"I think… this is where he stopped being only my son," he said slowly. "This is where he became himself."
Arun didn't argue.
"That doesn't mean you lost him," he said. "It means you may meet someone new."
Kannan looked at the river.
"He didn't wait anymore," he said again. "He walked without hoping someone would come."
Arun smiled gently.
"And yet he left signs."
Kannan closed his eyes.
"For me."
That night, as the valley cooled and stars emerged between mountain silhouettes, Ravi approached quietly.
"I heard something," he said. "From a boy in the village."
The group gathered.
"There's a town downstream," Ravi continued. "A place where migrants work near the bus routes. The boy with the circles—some people there remember him, not as a child."
Kannan looked up sharply.
"Not as a child?"
Ravi shook his head.
"They said there was a young helper. Quiet. Drew at night. Never stayed long."
Nish's voice was steady but charged.
"A teenager," he said. "Maybe older now."
Sara felt her heart quicken.
Arjun added quietly, "If he survived this far… he learned fast."
The river murmured beside them, unbroken.
Kannan stood, folding Akshay's note once more and placing it against his heart.
"Then we keep following," he said. "Not to find my son as he was."
He looked downstream, where the river widened and disappeared into darkness.
"But to find who he became."
The current flowed on.
And somewhere ahead, a life shaped by walking, not waiting, continued.