What the River Remembers

She kneels where the hush of water meets the hush of soul,
cupped hands holding a lotus lit from within—
not with flame, but with memory.
Around her, fireflies carry whispers of those who came before,
each flicker a name spoken back into the wind.
Her reflection does not mirror—
it answers.
The river knows her story,
because she’s written it there with every silent return.
This is not a spell.
This is remembrance.