Where the River Stills
When William returned to the village, tucked away among the pine forests of the Yorkshire Dales, the air felt thicker, heavier, as though time itself had settled into the needles, the cracks of the wooden cottages, the damp earth underfoot. Everything looked almost the same—the crooked footbridge over the brook, the old shed by the road, the birch with its twisted trunk at the bend—but something intangible had shifted. In every familiar object lurked a pause, a fracture, the shadow of something lost. William walked the path strewn with fallen needles and stopped at the gate.
The house stood as it always had, yet seemed to stoop beneath the weight of years. The windows were boarded, the porch railing torn away—marks of time or careless hands. A single plank hung loose from a rusty nail, swaying in the wind like a silent bell tolling the forgotten years.
Twenty years had passed. Since he’d left—hurriedly, on an old coach, a rucksack stuffed with anger and resentment. Back then, he hadn’t looked back. Hadn’t written a word. As if he’d severed not just his ties to the village but the memory of it altogether.
His father had died six years ago. William only learned by chance, from a message sent by an old acquaintance, buried in an app he rarely opened. Terse words: *”Buried quietly. Without you. He waited for you, then stopped.”* No accusations, just an echo that burned sharper than blame. As if someone had drawn a line, but the ink still bled.
He hadn’t come for the funeral. He’d come because one day, he’d felt the emptiness—not the vague kind written about in books, but the real sort, with jagged edges and echoes that rattled in his ribs. A chasm no work, no city, no years could fill. As if he’d lost something vital and only just realised it had always been there—unspoken, unlived.
William pushed the gate. It creaked, just as it had in childhood, sending a shiver down his spine, reminding him of the days his father called him in from play. He crossed the overgrown yard and opened the door. Inside, the scent of time—musty wood, dust, and something else, almost living, like longing. The walls held his leaving, his silence.
The kitchen was frozen, like an old photograph. The air was warm and dusty, faintly tinged with pipe tobacco. On a hook hung his father’s jacket—faded, worn, smelling just as it had those winters when his father draped it over his shoulders. A cracked saltshaker sat on the table, a yellowed newspaper with blurred print, a stub of pencil beside a dog-eared notebook. William ran his fingers over the wood. Dust settled on his skin like proof of lateness. And the air seemed to whisper: *”You came back after all.”*
He stayed the night. Lit the stove—clumsily, with effort—but the fire caught. Sat in the dark, no lamplight, listening to the floorboards creak, the house slowly breathing, as if waking from a long sleep. At midnight, he stepped onto the porch. The sky above the village was a sprawl of stars—so bright it seemed he could pluck one and tuck it into his pocket. He stood barefoot, the cold boards under his soles, when suddenly he caught a familiar scent—not tobacco, not pines, but presence. As if someone stood beside him, unseen yet close.
At dawn, William went to the river. The very one where he and his father had cast nets, arguing over who’d spot the float first. Where, at fifteen, he’d tried his first cigarette, and his father, catching him, had silently taken the pack—no words, just a look that saw right through him. Where their last fight had started—stupid, but it became a chasm. William had shouted; his father had stayed silent. After that, they never spoke properly again.
The banks were choked with reeds. The water was murky, almost black. William stood at the edge, watching the current carry away twigs.
*”Does it go far?”* came a voice behind him.
He turned. An old woman—maybe a neighbour from the far end of the village. Her face was lined like cracked bark, her eyes sharp as a raven’s.
*”Somewhere, I suppose,”* William said. *”Everything goes somewhere.”*
The woman stepped closer, studying him.
*”You’re Edward’s boy. Hutchinson.”*
William nodded.
*”Didn’t recognise you at first. They said you’d gone for good. Thought you’d never come back.”*
*”So did I,”* he said quietly. *”Left like it was forever. Then…”*
*”Got hollow?”* she cut in. *”Happens to everyone. You run, but it catches up.”*
She sighed, eyes on the river.
*”He came here often. Before the end. Sat throwing stones. Said, ‘Wonder if my boy remembers fishing here. Or if it’s all washed away?’”*
William swallowed the knot in his throat.
*”I remember. Even the smell of the mud. Even him swearing when I tore the net.”*
The woman nodded. A silence settled.
*”Good you came back. Place isn’t much, but when someone returns—it eases things. Even the river. And your house most of all.”*
She touched his shoulder, her hand dry as parchment, then walked off, leaning on her stick. No goodbyes, as though the conversation wasn’t quite finished.
William stayed. Stared at the water a long while. It flowed slow, stubborn, heedless of people or years. He listened to its murmur, mingled with the wind and rustling reeds. From his pocket, he pulled a photograph. Him and his father, both young. Laughing. One of those rare days when they hadn’t argued or gone silent. His father held a fishing rod; William clutched a pocketknife, his face smudged with dirt but happy.
He looked at the photo longer than he meant to. As if saying farewell not just to it, but to the boy he’d never be again. Then he let it go into the water. The river took it, spun it. The paper bobbed, hesitating—sink or float? Then it floated. Swirled, flicked a corner up like a wave goodbye, and vanished around the bend.
When William returned to the house, he knew he’d stay. Not forever, no. But for now—here. While the house still smelled of his father’s jacket, while the stove still crackled, while the river remembered his steps. While the air hummed with the unsaid.
Sometimes you have to return to hear what’s been silent all your life. Not just to forgive, but to understand. To say what you never did. To yourself, your father, the house.
And to learn where the river stills. Or perhaps, where it begins again.
