The river didn't ever freeze. Even in the deepest winter, when the village lay covered in silent snow, and every lantern burned low against the cold, the water continued to run.
Slow, quiet and unstoppable.
It had been like that a long time ago. Long ago, when people used to walk there. They followed a hushed path beyond the small village, watching as their flames reflected off the dark water.
The light always looked different there, softer and steadier, as if the cold did not hinder it.
Until one night.
A flame began to fade.
Someone had noticed and stepped forward, lifting their lantern to help. A light could be shared.
Everyone knew that.
But it was not something that could be done carelessly. As the flames touch, they burn brighter together for a second. Then they didn't.
One flicked violently, pulling out on itself.
The other went out.
Just like that.
The river continued to move, unchanged by the events. But by morning, the word spread.
A light had gone out by the river.
No one walked by the river after that.
The path had disappeared under a silent snow. The distance between the village and the river became more than just space. It was something people chose.
The river remained.
Far away.