Stories Beneath the Trees
From the novel When the River Meets the Sea
By Mavin Simai
By the fourth morning, it was no longer a coincidence.
It was routine.
The river had become the place where our days quietly began.
I arrived just as the sunlight started pushing through the trees. The air still carried the coolness of the night, and the mist hovered low above the water like a soft curtain waiting to disappear.
Amina was already there.
But this time she wasn’t sitting on the bench or standing by the dock.
She was lying on the grass beneath the tall acacia tree, her sketchbook resting beside her. One arm covered her eyes as if she was blocking the early sunlight.
“You planning to sleep here?” I asked.
She lifted her arm slightly and looked at me.
“You’re late.”
“I’m five minutes early.”
“Exactly,” she said. “You’re usually ten.”
I shook my head and sat beside her on the grass.
For a while neither of us spoke.
The leaves above us moved gently in the wind, letting thin beams of sunlight slip through. Somewhere deeper in the trees, birds chirped in uneven rhythm, as if they were still arguing about whether morning had truly begun.
“What are you drawing today?” I asked.
She reached for the sketchbook and opened it.
Several new pages had been filled since the last time I saw it.
The river.
The dock.
The trees bending toward the water.
Even the fisherman who sometimes stood far downstream.
“You’ve been busy,” I said.
“I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged.
“Too many thoughts.”
“That sounds familiar.”
She flipped another page.
This one surprised me.
It was a sketch of the dock.
But I was sitting on it.
Just a simple outline—nothing too detailed—but it was unmistakably me.
I looked at her.
“You drew me?”
She looked suddenly interested in the grass.
“It was easier than drawing the river again.”
“You could’ve warned me.”
“Why?”
“So I could sit properly.”
She laughed softly.
“You were sitting properly.”
I studied the sketch again.
It was strange seeing myself through someone else’s eyes.
“You’re good,” I said quietly.
She didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, she closed the sketchbook and placed it beside her.
“You still haven’t told me something,” she said.
“What?”
“Why you spend so much time here.”
I thought about it.
The river had always been easier to understand than people.
“I guess it’s the only place where things feel… simple,” I said.
“Life isn’t simple though.”
“I know.”
“But the river is,” she said.
We both looked toward the water.
The current moved calmly, steady and patient.
“What about you?” I asked. “Why did you leave the city?”
She was quiet for a moment.
Longer than usual.
“I didn’t exactly leave,” she said eventually.
“What do you mean?”
“I just needed space.”
“From what?”
“Everything.”
The word hung in the air.
I didn’t push further.
Something in her voice suggested there was more to the story than she was ready to share.
Instead, she stood up and brushed the grass from her dress.
“Walk with me,” she said.
We followed the path deeper along the river than we usually did. The trees grew thicker there, creating patches of shade that made the morning feel cooler.
The sound of the town disappeared behind us.
Only the river remained.
“My father used to take me to a place like this,” she said suddenly.
“A river?”
“No. The ocean.”
I looked at her.
“You grew up near the sea?”
She nodded.
“The waves were louder than this river. Stronger too. But sometimes, early in the morning, it could be just as peaceful.”
“Do you miss it?”
“All the time.”
She picked up a small stone and tossed it gently into the water.
The ripples spread outward before disappearing into the current.
“My father used to say something strange,” she added.
“What?”
“He said every river eventually finds the sea.”
“That’s true.”
“Yes,” she said. “But he also said some people spend their entire lives trying to find where they belong.”
I watched the ripples fade.
“And do you believe him?” I asked.
She looked at the river for a long moment before answering.
“I think I’m still trying to find out.”
The breeze moved through the trees again, carrying the faint smell of the water.
For the first time since we met, I realized something.
Amina wasn’t just someone passing time by the river.
She was someone searching for something.
And somehow, without either of us planning it, our mornings had become part of that search.
Eventually she glanced toward the sun.
“I should go,” she said.
“You always say that.”
“And I always leave.”
We walked back toward the fork in the path.
The same place where she turned toward town every morning.
But before leaving, she looked back at the river.
“Jamal,” she said.
“Yes?”
“If the river meets the sea eventually…”
“What about it?”
She smiled slightly.
“I wonder where this one will take us.”
Then she walked away between the trees.
I stayed behind for a moment, watching the river move slowly toward a place neither of us could see.
For the first time, the thought crossed my mind that maybe the river wasn’t the only thing on a journey.
Maybe we were too.
Next Episode: The Day It Rained