You fold the paper slowly.

Crease by crease.

Like your mother taught you—

before she forgot how to smile.

The boat is fragile.

Soaked already at the edges

from the salt on your hands.

You kneel by the river

where the trees lean in too close,

listening.

Always listening.

The scent of lemons clings to your sleeves.

It’s not real.

Just memory,

acid-sweet and sharp—

from her hands,

her hair,

the last cake she never finished baking.

You set the boat down.

It hesitates.

Then drifts.

You tell yourself it’s for closure.

But your mouth tastes like lies.

Behind you—

a branch snaps.

Not wind.

Not accident.

Something that remembers the boat.

And the tears.

And the lemon tree

you thought was just a dream.

The river pulls harder.

Tugging at the boat,

at your shoes,

at your breath.

Because you offered something.

And now

it wants more.