The sound of running water was different in the early morning. Mizuno Kuusuke thought that as he stood by the riverbank, his hands were buried deep inside his jacket pockets. It was early spring, though the air still carried the brittle chill of winter. The kind of cold that made you question whether the promise of spring was anything more than a polite lie.

  He hadn’t pnned to be here. Or, rather, he had. But not in the sense that made sense to anyone else. If asked, he might have said he was out for a walk. A solitary stroll to clear his head. But he had worn his best shoes, polished them quietly st night, and had left his phone on his desk back at the apartment, next to the textbook he wasn’t going to read.

  The water was clearer than he remembered. He could see the stones at the bottom, smooth and dark like river-polished marbles. They were cold, too. He imagined how they might feel under his feet, slick and unsteady, difficult to trust.

  Kuusuke let out a breath that clouded faintly in the air. He had come here before dawn. He couldn’t say exactly why, but he felt it was important to be early. He was always te. Late to everything that mattered. School deadlines, club meetings, dates with people he barely remembered now. This time, he would be early.

  He stepped closer to the edge. The rocks near the river had lost their dusting of frost, but they were still damp with the dew that clung to everything. He could feel it through the thin soles of his shoes.

  This river had a name, though he never used it. To him, it was always just “the river.” The one at the edge of town. The one where he had once nearly drowned.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the water. Not the roar of it, but the quiet rhythm beneath. Like breath. Like the kind of breathing you only notice when everything else goes quiet.

  There was no one around. Of course, there wasn’t.

  He stepped forward again. His foot slipped slightly on the wet stone, and for a moment he flinched, feeling his bance waver. But he didn’t fall. Not yet.

  “You’re an idiot.”

  The voice came from behind him, casual and blunt. A girl’s voice, clear but not cold. Annoyed, maybe.

  Kuusuke turned his head slowly. He was almost disappointed to find someone there.

  She stood a few steps away, arms folded, her white dress fluttering faintly in the breeze. She didn’t look angry, exactly. But her expression was sharp. As if she had seen something like this before and was tired of it.

  “You’re not even good at this,” she said ftly.

  He blinked. “At… what?”

  She sighed, stepping closer. The grass didn’t rustle under her feet. She was too light for that. Or maybe he was imagining it.

  “At throwing your life away,” she said. “You’re sloppy. No note, no pn. You didn’t even check how deep the water is.”

  He stared at her. The absurdity of the moment made him forget, briefly, why he was there.

  “I—” He started, but stopped.

  She pointed to the river. “It’s shallow this time of year. You’d break your legs before you drown.”

  He didn’t say anything. She was right. He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t thought about much.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked quietly.

  She tilted her head. “I don’t want anything,” she said. “But you shouldn’t waste your life like it’s a receipt for something you don’t even remember buying.”

  He frowned. The metaphor was strange. But he understood.

  The girl stepped beside him, looking out at the water. Her hair was dark, almost bck, but when the breeze caught it, there were faint streaks of something lighter. Her skin was pale, the kind of pale that didn’t belong to someone who spent much time in the sun.

  “You’re Mizuno Kuusuke, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He tensed. “How do you know my name?”

  She smiled faintly. “I know lots of things.”

  He didn’t like the answer, but he didn’t argue.

  “And you?” he asked. “Who are you?”

  She gnced at him. “Yorukawa Yukari,” she said. “I’m the Witch of the River.”

  The title was delivered without irony. As if it were as natural as saying she was a student or worked part-time at a café.

  He exhaled slowly. “A witch, huh.”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of wet earth and grass beginning to wake from its winter sleep.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  She smiled again, a small, sad curve of her lips. “To keep people like you from doing something stupid.”

  He looked away. He wasn’t sure if he felt ashamed or angry. Or maybe both.

  “I’m not worth saving,” he said finally.

  “That’s not your decision to make,” Yukari replied, her voice quiet now. “At least, not yet.”

  He let the words settle between them. They didn’t erase the heaviness in his chest, but they pressed against it, slightly. Enough to make him hesitate.

  “Come back here tomorrow,” she said after a while. “If you want.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the river is different every day,” she said. “And so are you.”

  ※

  That night, Kuusuke couldn’t sleep. His apartment was small, the kind of pce where the walls seemed too close, and the ceiling seemed to press downward when he y in bed.

  He thought about Yukari. Her voice. Her pale hands, how they moved when she spoke. The way she had known his name without asking.

  He dreamed, briefly, of water. Cold and deep. And hands reaching through it to pull him up.

  When he woke, his pillow was damp. He wasn’t sure if it was sweat or tears.

  ※

  The next morning, he returned to the river. He told himself it was out of curiosity. That he didn’t believe in witches or strange girls in white dresses. But he went.

  Yukari was there, sitting on a rge stone by the bank. She waved when she saw him.

  “You came,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I had nothing better to do.”

  “Liar,” she said lightly. “You’re curious.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  They talked. Not about anything important. She asked about his csses. He lied and said he was doing fine. She asked about his family. He didn’t answer.

  She didn’t press.

  Instead, she told him about the river. How the stones had been worn smooth over centuries. How there were fish that only came in the early morning, silver slivers that darted just beneath the surface.

  “You can’t see them if you don’t know where to look,” she said. “Most people don’t bother.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  She smiled faintly. “I always look.”

  He followed her gaze. After a while, he saw the glint of silver beneath the water. Small and quick, like something alive.

  It was nothing, really. But it made something in his chest loosen. Just a little.

  Over the next few days, they met in the early morning. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they sat in silence. Yukari brought a camera once, an old film one with scuffs along the edges.

  “You should try,” she said, handing it to him.

  He shook his head. “I’m not good at things like this.”

  “You won’t know until you try.”

  He took the camera, awkward in his hands. Looked through the viewfinder. Framed the river, the stones, the faint light of dawn.

  Clicked the shutter.

  When he lowered the camera, she was smiling. Not the small, sad smile he had come to expect. But something warmer.

  “You have a good eye,” she said.

  He didn’t believe her. But he wanted to.

  One morning, he asked, “Why are you doing this?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Just watched the water.

  “Because I owe you,” she said finally.

  He frowned. “We’ve never met before.”

  “We have,” she said quietly. “You just don’t remember.”

  He tried to press her, but she only shook her head.

  “Come back tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll tell you then.”