The Quiet Habit
From the novel When the River Meets the Sea
By Mavin Simai
After that morning, the river was no longer just my place.
It became our place.
Not in any official way. We never said it out loud. But something about the quiet understanding between us made it feel natural. As if the river itself had decided we would meet there.
The next day I arrived at the usual time.
And there she was.
Sitting on the wooden bench again, her sketchbook open on her lap, the pencil moving slowly across the page. The early sunlight filtered through the trees, falling softly on the paper.
“You’re becoming predictable,” she said without looking up.
“You noticed?”
“I notice everything.”
I stepped closer and leaned slightly to see the page.
This time she wasn’t drawing the river.
She was sketching the trees that lined the bank, their branches bending toward the water like quiet spectators watching the current pass.
“You’re getting good at this,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Getting?”
I laughed.
“Okay. You’re already good at this.”
She closed the sketchbook gently.
“Flattery this early in the morning?”
“It’s honesty.”
We started walking along the path again, like we had done the day before. The routine felt strangely comfortable for something so new.
The river moved beside us, its steady rhythm becoming the background to our conversations.
“What do you usually think about when you sit here?” she asked after a while.
“Everything,” I said.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It can be.”
She picked up a small stick and traced lines in the sand as we walked.
“I come here to stop thinking,” she said.
“That works?”
“Sometimes.”
We reached the flat stones near the water again. The same place where we had skipped stones the previous morning.
I picked one up and tossed it.
One bounce.
Two.
Three.
Four.
It sank quietly beneath the surface.
Amina crossed her arms.
“You’ve been practicing.”
“I have a reputation to protect.”
She crouched down and searched for a stone of her own.
“Let’s see if you still have competition.”
She flicked the stone across the water.
One bounce.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
The stone disappeared into the river, leaving small ripples behind.
I stared at her.
“You’ve definitely been practicing.”
She smiled proudly.
“Maybe.”
We sat on the dock after that.
The wooden boards were warm now under the growing sunlight. The river carried a few fallen leaves downstream, spinning them slowly as they drifted away.
“What do you do when you’re not here?” she asked.
“Nothing interesting,” I said.
“Try again.”
I sighed.
“I help at my uncle’s shop sometimes. Mostly small repairs. Radios, fans, old things people refuse to throw away.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“Fixing things is a good skill.”
“I guess.”
“What about writing?” she asked suddenly.
I looked at her.
“Writing?”
“You seem like someone who writes.”
I laughed.
“Why?”
“Because you watch things too carefully.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Maybe she was right.
Or maybe she just noticed things most people didn’t.
“What about you?” I asked. “Besides sketching rivers.”
She leaned back on her hands, looking up at the sky through the branches.
“I used to paint,” she said.
“Used to?”
“In the city.”
“So why stop?”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Life,” she said finally.
That single word seemed heavier than the conversation deserved.
The breeze picked up slightly, sending small ripples across the surface of the water.
“Do you miss it?” I asked.
She looked at the river again.
“Yes.”
Her answer came so softly I almost didn’t hear it.
For a while we just sat there, watching the current move past the dock.
It felt strange how quickly the silence between us had become comfortable.
Not awkward.
Just peaceful.
Eventually she stood up and stretched slightly.
“I should probably go before my aunt starts another investigation.”
“Another?”
“She thinks I disappear too much.”
“You kind of do.”
She smiled.
“But I always come back.”
We walked back toward the path together.
At the fork where the trail split toward the town, she stopped.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked.
“Probably,” I said.
She nodded, satisfied.
Then she walked down the smaller path that led toward the houses beyond the trees.
I stayed there for a moment, watching the direction she had gone.
Something about these mornings was becoming familiar.
Like a habit forming quietly without permission.
The river.
The path.
The conversations.
And her.
I didn’t know how long it would last.
But I knew one thing for certain.
Tomorrow morning, I would be back by the river.
And part of me already hoped she would be there too.
Next Episode: Stories Beneath the Trees