The river's voice was never silent. Even in the deep belly of winter, it refused to surrender its innermost current. Between shelves of shimmering ice, a thin ribbon of water churned and gurgled. The woman sitting on the riverbank fancied that there were other voices being carried on the chill wind. Voices from the past, perhaps. Or those that dwelt in her imagination, in her troubled and uneven psyche.
Where will you go?
It doesn't matter.
Thick, puffy clouds glistened with the light from sun which was setting behind them. The western sky was a tapestry of bright gold and gleaming silver. It was blinding to look at straight-on, which only made her want to stare all the more boldly.
It matters to me.
Well, it doesn't matter to me.
But it should.
But it doesn't.
She rubbed her chapped lips together and looked down at the small, leather-bound book in her hands. There was an urge to throw it into the ice-choked river. She remembered throwing another book, very much like this one, into a fire. She was sorry after she'd done it.
Keep yourself warm, little fox.
I'm warm, Pa.
There was a strange softening to the hard, confusing shell around her mind. As the coming spring would gently erode the crusts of ice from the riverbank, freeing its waters to flow in peace rather than a frantic, gasping spurt, so did this memory work against the festering scars that choked her thoughts.
Keep yourself warm.
She tucked the book beneath her coat and held up her hands. The tips of her gloveless fingers were red with cold. She flexed them slowly.
I'll go get warm, Pa.
As the sun was swallowed into the western hills, she stood and began walking south along the river's edge.
