Some rivers don’t rush.
They wait.
The path to the dock wasn’t marked. It never is, when you’re almost ready.
The morning was quiet — not empty, but full of things unsaid. The air tasted like mist and sunlight. The trees curved in a way that felt like invitation, not direction.
And there it was. A wooden dock.
No boat tied to it.
But I knew one would come.
Lilly sat at the edge, tail flicking just once.
She looked at me, then the water. Then closed her eyes.
I stepped beside her. Unfolded the map I’d been carrying.
Still blank in places. Still glowing in others.
The moment it touched the water — Lines began to move. Not draw. Flow.
They shifted gently.
Revealed a new line.
No destination.
Just a curve.
A boat appeared without a sound. Small. Wooden. Empty. But not lonely.
I looked at Lilly. She didn’t jump in. She stayed.
I didn’t ask. Just stepped in.
The boat rocked softly. And the river — the one that had waited this whole time — began to move.
Not all journeys begin with movement. Some begin when you’re still enough to be carried.
And some rivers… they wait until you’re ready.