River Walk

They say the river dried a century ago, when the last bell tolled from the cathedral tower, and the people simply stopped listening.

The water disappeared, but the current remained, carrying the weight of time
beneath stone bridges and brittle leaves.

Now only the artist walks here, brush in hand, following the path no one else can see.

Each mark on the page—a step retraced. Each texture—a ghost stirred.

And sometimes, if the wind is quiet enough, the city speaks.
Not in words, but in the hush between them.