The war had left more ruins than roads.
Three villagers stood on the forest’s edge, staring at the river that cut their world in two. The bridge was gone—bombed out last winter. Now only the current remained, wide and cold, swollen with spring melt.
Ilsa tightened the straps of her pack. Inside were the last jars of food she and her brother had managed to save. Across the river, in the abandoned mill, shelter waited. Beyond it, maybe a path to safety. But only if they crossed.
“Too wide to wade,” muttered her brother Janis. He tossed a stick in. It spun and vanished downstream in seconds. “And too fast to swim straight across.”
The third, an older man named Peteris, watched silently. His face was carved with lines like bark, the kind that come from years of reading land and water. Finally, he said:
“You never cross a river the way it tells you. You listen, then you argue with its rules.”
Ilsa frowned. “And if the river doesn’t listen back?”
“Then you’re dead,” Peteris answered simply.
The sound of the water filled the air. It wasn’t a roar—it was steady, insistent, like breath that never ended. The far bank looked close enough to touch, but every ripple was a warning.
Janis wiped sweat from his brow. “We don’t have a choice. Patrols will come this way by nightfall.”
Ilsa stared at the rushing water. She thought of the stories from her grandmother, of men carried away during floods, bodies found days later tangled in reeds. She swallowed hard.
Peteris took a long branch from the bank and began testing the shallows. His boots sank in the mud, but his steps were calm, deliberate.
“Every river has its kindness,” he said. “You just need to find it before it runs out.”
Peteris moved like a man who had crossed rivers all his life.
He stabbed the branch into the shallows, feeling for firmness, for depth, for hidden traps. Each time he shifted his weight, the mud sucked at his boots, reluctant to release him.
“Never trust what you see on the surface,” he said over his shoulder. “The calm patches can be the deepest. The foaming ones may only skim the rocks.”
Ilsa followed reluctantly, water biting at her calves. The chill burned like knives. Her breath caught, but she forced herself to step where Peteris stepped.
Janis came behind, muttering. “Feels like it wants to pull my legs out from under me already.”
“That’s because you’re fighting it,” Peteris answered without looking back. “You lean too hard, the river takes offense. Keep your weight low. Face upstream. Let it push against you—it’s honest about where it’s strong.”
Ilsa clenched her teeth. Each step forward felt like walking into the chest of a giant who kept shoving back. Her pack tugged at her shoulders, threatening to spin her off balance. She grabbed her brother’s arm once when his foot slipped, and for a heartbeat she imagined both of them carried away like driftwood.
They stopped halfway to the first gravel bar—a patch of stones rising just above the surface, the river hissing angrily around it. The current pushed hard here, shoving their legs sideways.
“Slow,” Peteris warned. He planted the branch ahead, shifted, then dragged his feet without lifting them. “If you pick your foot up, the current owns it. Slide. Always slide.”
Ilsa obeyed, her calves aching with the strain. Janis cursed, nearly losing his footing before catching himself.
“Think I’d rather swim,” he muttered.
“You’d last thirty seconds,” Peteris said flatly. “Strong arms mean nothing. The river decides when you cross.”
When they finally stumbled onto the gravel bar, Ilsa nearly collapsed, legs trembling, breath sharp in her chest.
Janis spat river water. “That was only the easy part, wasn’t it?”
Peteris’s silence was answer enough.
Ilsa looked ahead: the main channel waited, broader, faster, deeper. Foam curled like teeth where it bent against fallen logs. The far bank looked no closer than it had from shore.
For the first time she wondered if they would ever set foot on it alive.
The main channel thundered louder than the shallows, though its voice was low and deep, like something ancient clearing its throat. The gravel bar beneath their feet trembled with the vibration of it.
Ilsa’s eyes darted to Peteris. His jaw was set, his hand steady on the long branch. “This is the heart,” he said. “If the river takes us, it will be here.”
Janis muttered a curse under his breath but squared his shoulders. “So we just… walk?”
“Not walk,” Peteris corrected. “We angle. Always downstream, never straight. Let it carry you a little. Fighting makes you heavy. Sliding makes you light.”
Ilsa swallowed. The far bank looked so far it might have been another country.
Peteris stepped in first. The water rose fast—from thigh to waist, then to ribs. The current shoved like a wall, but he leaned into it, planting his branch ahead, sliding his feet carefully.
“Stay close!” he barked.
Ilsa followed, teeth chattering though the air was warm. The cold bit through her clothes, filled her bones. She felt the river trying to steal each step, trying to tug her legs apart. She grabbed at Janis’s sleeve.
Her brother hissed, “Don’t pull me off balance!” But he gripped her hand tighter, bracing against the invisible force that pressed into them.
The current surged suddenly stronger. A log shot past, spinning, nearly clipping Janis. He ducked instinctively, heart hammering.
“That’s what kills you,” Peteris grunted, still sliding forward. “Not the water—what it carries.”
Ilsa tried to focus on the rhythm of her breathing, but every heartbeat felt like it might be her last. Her thighs burned, her pack dragged, her chest screamed for rest.
Then, midstream, her foot slipped on smooth stone. The river seized her instantly, spinning her sideways. Water crashed into her face, filled her nose, her ears. Panic erupted—pure, sharp terror.
She clawed for purchase, legs kicking uselessly. The current pulled like iron hands.
“Ilsa!” Janis roared. He lunged, catching her wrist just as the river tried to rip her free. His grip was a fire in the cold chaos.
“Don’t fight!” Peteris bellowed, his voice cutting through the roar. “On your back—let it take you, then slide out!”
But Ilsa’s instincts screamed the opposite. Her arms flailed, lungs burning, her pack tugging her down. The river’s grip was everywhere—relentless, uncaring.
And in that wild thrashing moment, she realized: the more she fought, the more she sank.
Ilsa’s chest burned as though fire had been poured inside her. The river spun her, dragged her, choked her nose and mouth with water. Instinct screamed: Kick harder, thrash, fight!
But above the roar came Peteris’s voice, sharp and commanding:
“FLOAT, GIRL! Don’t fight it—FLOAT!”
Her brother’s grip on her wrist slipped for a heartbeat, then caught again. Janis’s face was twisted with terror. “Ilsa, listen to him! Stop kicking!”
Her body refused at first. Muscles clenched, legs kicked in panic. But then—just for one breath—she forced herself to go limp, to roll onto her back, arms wide. The current grabbed her still, but instead of dragging her under, it carried her like driftwood.
Cold air hit her mouth. She gasped, coughing river water. It hurt, but it was air.
“That’s it!” Peteris’s voice carried over the surge. He was closer now, his branch stabbing into the gravel below. “Angle with it, not against it. Let it take you, then step off!”
Janis moved beside her, half supporting, half floating himself. His face was pale, but his strokes were steady now, angled across the current.
Ilsa forced her mind to focus—on the treeline of the far bank, on the reeds that whipped in the wind. She angled her body, not straight, but slantwise. Each breath she managed was a small victory.
The river raged around them, but she felt its pattern now. It was no longer a monster—it was a road, a fast one, and she was learning to walk sideways across it.
“Good,” Peteris called, closer now. His branch jabbed firm against the bottom as he steadied himself. “Just a little more. Gravel ahead. Don’t hurry—steady.”
Ilsa’s arms ached, her thighs screamed, but she obeyed.
Step, slide, breathe.
Step, slide, breathe.
And then—stone beneath her toes. Not slick, but rough gravel. The water still pushed, but it no longer tried to drag her away.
Ilsa let out a sob, half relief, half exhaustion. Janis clung to her, both of them shaking.
Peteris hauled them forward the last few steps, planting his branch with unshakable certainty, until all three collapsed onto the far gravel spit.
Ilsa lay on her back, chest heaving, eyes burning from river water. Above her, the sky was blinding blue, as if mocking their struggle.
Janis rolled over, groaning. “I thought… I thought I lost you.”
“You nearly did,” Peteris said flatly, collapsing onto one knee. “But she remembered before the river could finish its work.”
Ilsa closed her eyes. Her body trembled, but inside, something steadier had settled—a hard, clear truth.
The river wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t kind. It was only stronger. And strength alone would never beat it.
The reeds whispered as if nothing had happened. Dragonflies buzzed lazily, their wings catching the light. The far bank smelled of wet mud and pine resin—ordinary, alive, steady.
Ilsa crawled up the slope, hands sinking into the soil, every muscle in her body screaming with fatigue. When she finally collapsed on the grass, it felt like touching another world.
Janis dropped beside her, coughing until his ribs shook. Then he laughed—ragged, bitter, but alive. “We made it.”
Peteris came last, slower but sure, hauling his soaked branch like a weapon. He lowered himself onto the bank without ceremony, rubbing his knees. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes were calm, almost satisfied.
“You didn’t make it,” he said quietly. “The river allowed it. Don’t forget that difference.”
Ilsa turned her head toward him, hair plastered across her face. “You mean we were lucky.”
“No.” He picked up a stone, rolled it in his palm. “Luck runs out fast. You listened. That’s the only reason you’re here.” He tossed the stone back into the reeds. “Most people thrash until they drown. You stopped thrashing.”
Janis let out a shaky breath. “I thought swimming harder would save me. But the more I pushed, the heavier it felt.”
“That’s the lesson,” Peteris said, his voice gravelled by years and rivers. “Strength doesn’t carry you across. Respect does. You step where it lets you. You angle where it wants. And if it takes you anyway, you float until it spits you out somewhere else.”
Ilsa stared up at the sky. The sunlight was sharp, the clouds slow. She thought of how close she had been to vanishing—swallowed without trace, just another story whispered about the river. Her skin still burned from its cold memory.
“Then we remember,” she whispered. “Every time.”
Peteris nodded once. “Every time.”
They rested in silence, the far bank solid under them. Behind, the river went on as it always had—indifferent, endless, carrying sticks and foam and secrets toward the sea.
For Ilsa, it would never again be just water. It would always be a voice, deep and steady, saying: You cross only if you know how. And only if I let you.
And on that far bank, with the ruined bridge behind them, she understood—sometimes survival was not a triumph over nature, but a negotiation with it.
A negotiation they had barely, but truly, won.