The Copper Kettle's Weight

A young woman waits by a riverbank for a specific, forgotten letter to arrive.

Wet stone and moss hung in the air. Elara sat on the bank where the river flowed slow, a grey line catching the weak sun. She pulled her thin coat collar up, the cold biting through the cloth. Water slapped the gravel, a steady, low sound in the quiet.

She watched the far bank. Only reeds moved, dark green spikes swaying in the wind. Her eyes traced the path away from the water, looking for a known shape, a sign of someone coming. It was a letter. One folded piece of paper, the one she had waited three months for.

A shadow fell on her lap. She did not look up right away. The sound of soft leather dragging on the wet ground caught her attention.

“You wait long,” a voice said. It was low, like stones rolling in a stream.

Elara moved. She finally looked up. A man stood near the water. He wore a heavy, dark coat, and his hands rested on the worn leather of a bag. He did not smile.

“It is late,” Elara said. Her voice sounded rough, unused. “The river does not rush.”

The man shifted his weight. He looked at the water, then back at her. “Waiting is not always good, girl. Sometimes it is just staying.” He took a slow step nearer. “Do you think it will arrive?”

Elara hugged her knees tighter. “I hope it does.”

He did not speak. He looked down at the river, then turned and walked off, his boots disturbing the wet dirt. The sound of him leaving died fast. Elara watched the spot where he had stood, then slowly reached into her pocket, her fingers touching the cool, smooth metal of the copper kettle she held.