Paper Boats on the River of Time

Paper Boats on the River of Time

In the hour before the world remembers its name, when dawn holds its breath between darkness and day, there flows a river that belongs to no map. Its waters move with the unhurried grace of centuries, catching the first threads of morning light like silk upon its surface. The meadows that cradle this gentle waterway stretch endlessly in all directions, their grasses heavy with dew that trembles like scattered pearls.

The mist rises from the water in soft columns, each tendril a prayer ascending to the pale sky. There is no wind here, only the gentlest of stirrings—the river’s own breath, perhaps, or the whispered conversation between water and shore. The air tastes of rain that fell long ago and sunshine yet to come, clean and cool against the skin, carrying within it the memory of every season this valley has known.

Along the banks, willows bend their ancient heads towards the water, their trailing fingers almost touching the surface, creating tiny circles that spread outward in perfect, widening rings. The light grows stronger now, not harsh or demanding, but patient as honey, golden as the inside of a seashell. It falls across the water in long, gentle strokes, painting everything it touches with warmth.

And upon this river, as constant as the flow itself, drift paper boats…