I’m an artist. Some would call me talentless, others—a genius. But truth be told, I drowned whatever talent I had long ago in liquor and dull conversations with strangers.
Until one day, I met a girl. I can’t even remember her name now, but I remember vividly that irresistible urge to read her story, to preserve it on canvas—a memento of the bright emotions she gave me in such a short time.
In those moments, it felt like we had an eternity ahead of us, just the two of us. But clocks tick too fast: blink, and another life has slipped away.
I sought solace in her, but instead, I awakened my deepest fears. And here’s the catch: if a fear has come alive in my mind, then I’m the one who created it. And if you look closer… we’re old friends.
I surfaced from the cool water and grabbed the edge of the wooden footbridge with four fingers. Caught my breath. I don’t remember ever being a bad swimmer—usually, the water obeyed me. Or so I thought. And for some reason, I couldn’t recall how I’d ended up in the river, let alone twice.
"You gonna splash around there all day?"
I raised my eyes and squinted against the summer sun, peering through barely open lids at a boy of about seven. The kid, with neatly combed chestnut hair swept back, held out a terrycloth towel and grinned, revealing a prominent gap between his front teeth.
Lowering my watering eyes, I noticed his bright yellow rubber boots.
"Afraid of getting your feet wet?"
"Don’t wanna get muddy," the boy snorted, plopping down on the edge of the footbridge.
I hauled myself up with my arms, grateful my workouts hadn’t been for nothing, and sat beside him, dabbing my wet hair with the towel. A couple of strands stubbornly clung to my face, and I flicked them away with an irritated jerk.
Dangling my bare feet in the river’s cool current, I glanced around. It felt like morning, and somewhere in the distance, the cheerful chirping of birds greeted us. My heart felt so light that I had no desire at all to remember why I was here.
The body of water was massive, an elongated oval fringed with reeds and wild grass. On the far shore, gnarled, towering trees stood skeletal and bare. Even now, I’d swear they looked eerie—like twisted, gaunt silhouettes that’d only grow more sinister by evening.
The thought made me uneasy, and I ran the towel over my hair again, trying to distract myself.
For as long as I could remember, anxiety had always gnawed at me. It shifted in intensity and shape—sometimes wrapping around me like a blanket, other times tightening around my temples like barbed wire. But it was always there. Unlike her. "Wait… who is 'her'?"
"You do know fish don’t just catch themselves, right?"
The kid’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He pointed a stubby finger at a fishing rod lying beside me—one I hadn’t even noticed.
"Who are you?" I finally asked.
"You tell me," the boy laughed and tossed a pebble into the river.
I stared at the ripples fanning out across the still water and thought, What a little brat. I’m not telling him anything.
"Alright, if you’re done muttering to yourself like an old man, let’s go to the house. You need to get dressed," the kid ordered, marching toward a small wooden cabin nestled near the lake, half-hidden behind dry bushes and the same twisted trees that lined the opposite shore.
"What were you doing on the footbridge?" I crossed my arms.
"On the fishing platform," the boy corrected.
"What?"
"What I was doing on the fishing platform," the kid stressed pedantically. "It’s called a platform, not just a footbridge."
"What’s the damn difference?"
"Grandpa said fishing platforms are built for catching fish, but a footbridge just gets you to the other side. Can you cross this? No. So it’s a platform." The boy tapped his temple, either highlighting his own precocious wisdom or my glaring ignorance. "If it were a proper bridge, you could’ve crossed to the other side. But you can’t, can you?"
