The river has a new name now. You do not know what it was. You only know that the water is black, and it smells of iron and rot. You stand on the bank. Your legs are heavy. The mud sucks at your boots.

You are Thomas. You are the son. You are the sinner.

The house looms behind you. It is old. The stone is dark with age. The windows are blind. No light comes out. No one comes out. It has been three days. The silence is a weight on your chest. You press your hand against your ribs. They ache.

Inside, your mother is dying.

You know this. You have always known this. But today, the air is different. It is thick. It tastes of copper. You took the medicine. You gave it to her. You watched her swallow. You watched her eyes close. You thought you were saving her. You thought you were stopping the pain.

You were wrong.

The river moves. It is slow. It is steady. It does not care about you. It does not care about the house. It does not care about the boy who stands on the bank, shaking.

You look at your hands. They are clean. That is the worst part. They are clean. There is no blood. There is no dirt. Just the pale skin of a man who has done a terrible thing and feels nothing but a hollow, cold fear.

You must go back. You must go inside. You must sit by her bed. You must listen for breath.

You take a step toward the house. The ground is wet. Your boot slips. You catch yourself. You breathe in. The air is cold. It bites your lungs.

You remember the old stories. Your grandmother used to tell them. She sat in the chair by the fire. Her voice was low. She spoke of the river. She said the river takes what is given. She said it does not give it back. You thought it was a lie. You thought it was just a story to keep children quiet.

You were wrong.

You reach the door. It is oak. It is heavy. You push it. It groans. The sound is loud in the empty hall. The smell hits you. It is sweet. It is cloying. It is the smell of sickness. It is the smell of death.

You walk to the stairs. The wood creaks under your weight. Each step is a test. Your heart beats in your ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. It is a drum. It is a warning.

You reach the top. The hallway is long. The shadows are deep. You see a figure. It is not your mother. It is a shadow. It moves without sound. It watches you. It has no face. It has no eyes. It is just a shape. It is the shape of your fear.

You stop. You stand still. The shadow moves closer. You want to run. Your legs do not move. You are frozen. You are the stone. You are the root.

You close your eyes. You count to ten. One. Two. Three. The air grows colder. Four. Five. Six. The smell grows stronger. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

You open your eyes. The shadow is gone. The hallway is empty. The light from the window at the end of the hall is dim. It is grey. It is dead.

You walk to the bedroom. The door is ajar. You push it open.

Your mother is in the bed. The sheets are white. They are stained. The stains are brown. They are dark. They are spreading.

She is not breathing.

You stand in the doorway. You do not move. You do not cry. You are empty. You are a vessel. You have no water. You have no life.

You walk to the bedside. You sit on the edge. The mattress dips. It is soft. It is cold. You look at her face. It is pale. It is still. The lines on her forehead are deep. The lines around her mouth are tight.

She looks peaceful. That is the cruelest part. She looks peaceful.

You reach out. You touch her hand. It is cold. It is dry. The skin is paper. You pull your hand back. You shake it. You shake your head.

"No," you say. The word is small. It dies in the air. "No."

You look at the bottle on the nightstand. It is empty. The glass is clear. The label is torn. You remember the taste of the water you gave her. It was bitter. It was harsh. You remember her face when she drank. She trusted you. She looked at you with love. She looked at you with hope.

You betrayed that hope. You stole her life. You took her time. You took her pain. You took her chance.

You feel a pressure in your head. It is a ringing. It is a buzz. It is the sound of the river. It is the sound of the water rising.

You look at the window. The curtains are drawn. You pull them back.

The river is there. It is close. It is higher than you thought. The water is black. It is moving fast. It is churning. It is angry.

It is coming for the house.

You look at your mother. You look at the river. You understand now. The knowledge is a curse. You knew it was coming. You felt it in the air. You felt it in the ground. You ignored it. You were too busy with your guilt. You were too busy with your sin.

The water hits the base of the house. The sound is a crash. The floor shakes. The dust falls from the ceiling.

You must go. You must save her. You must carry her out.

You lift her. She is heavy. She is dead weight. You struggle. Your muscles burn. Your arms tremble. You cannot do it. You are weak. You are broken.

You drop her. She slides down the bed. Her head hits the floor. The sound is a crack. It is a finality.

You fall to your knees. You look at her. Her eyes are open. They are closed. They are empty.

The water is at the door.

You see it. The brown water. It flows under the door. It creeps across the floor. It rises. It rises.

You look at the shadow. It is here. It stands in the corner. It is watching. It is smiling.

You realize something. You have not killed her. The river has killed her. You were just the instrument. You were the key. You unlocked the door. You opened the floodgates.

You are not the sinner. You are the witness.

The water reaches your knees. It is cold. It is dirty. It soaks your trousers. You do not move. You stay by her. You stay with her.

You look at her face. You see the peace. You see the release.

You close your eyes. You breathe in. The water is in your mouth. It tastes of mud. It tastes of iron. It tastes of the end.

The house groans. The beams crack. The roof begins to sink.

You are alone. You are with her. You are with the river.

The knowledge is gone. The curse is lifted. You do not need to know anymore. You do not need to remember.

The water rises. It covers your head. It covers her.

The silence returns. It is total. It is absolute.

You are not here. You are nowhere. You are the water. You are the dark.

The river takes the house. It takes the name. It takes the story.

The water settles. The black water is still. The surface is smooth. It reflects the grey sky.

A leaf floats by. It is yellow. It is dry. It spins in the current.

It drifts past the window. The glass is broken. The frame is twisted.

The leaf rests on the surface. It is still.

The river moves on. It does not look back. It does not mourn. It does not remember.

It is only water. It is only flow.

You are part of it now. You are part of the current. You are part of the mud.

The sun comes out. It is bright. It is harsh. It shines on the black water.

The water sparkles. It is beautiful. It is cold.

The leaf drifts away. It is gone.

The river is empty. The river is full.

It is the same.

It is always the same.

You are gone.

The water remains.