The River Between Worlds

She woke in a small boat.

No oars. No sail. No shore in sight.

She sat up slowly. The boat didn't rock. The water around her moved like molten glass, thick and bright. Shapes slid under the surface—doorways, bridges, faces—there for a second and then gone.

The air smelled like rain.

Her first thought wasn't Where am I? It was What did I do? She tried to remember her name and found nothing.

"Hello?" she called.

Her voice echoed back, a little late, like someone else copied her from far away.

She leaned over the edge. The face in the water blinked back, but the timing was off. For a heartbeat, the reflection wasn't her at all—a boy with dark eyes stared up.

Then just her again.

She jerked back. "This isn't real."

But the guilt was. It sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and certain, even though she couldn't name what she'd done.

The boat began to turn on its own. The current pulled her forward.

She reached toward the water. The surface darkened and pulled away. A low sound ran through the river—more vibration than noise—moving through her chest.

"Is someone there?"

No answer. Only the steady hum.

Memories tried to rise, but they weren't hers. A crowded street. Rain. A laugh in another language. A name she almost knew.

The boat kept sliding forward. Ahead, the horizon split into shapes—tall rectangles, wide arches—like doors made of light.

She couldn't look away. Fear faded under something stronger. Curiosity that made her want to lean closer.

The hum grew softer. The boat slowed.

A voice spoke—not loud, seeming to come from everywhere at once.

"Remember this place," it said. "Even if you forget your name."

She turned in a full circle. There was no one. Just the river, the boat, the empty sky.

"What are you?" she whispered.

The hum deepened, as if the river was thinking.

She faced forward. The doors of light were closer now. The boat drifted between them like it knew the way.

She took a slow breath and counted to five. She didn't know who she was or how she got here, but the path ahead felt right.

The boat moved on.

It slid between tall shapes of light. Up close, they looked like outlines waiting to be filled. Some held faint pictures inside—an alley of red lanterns, a field of grass, a stone bridge.

"Hello?" she tried.

The hum returned, steady and low. She matched her breathing to it.

A new sound cut through—soft at first, then clearer.

"—lia."

She froze. "What?"

Silence. Then again, shaped like a question. "—lia?"

"Is that my name?"

Nothing. Only the hum.

"Okay. Then I'll pick a name for now." She looked at the small white scar near her thumb. "Lia. That's me."

The river gave a small, sharp ripple.

A door brightened to her left. Inside it, a beautiful garden—lush and green with fountains and flowering trees. Sun poured through leaves like honey.

"Can I choose?"

The hum stretched out, thoughtful.

She stared at the garden. Perfect. Safe. Easy. Something about it felt wrong.

"I don't even know where I'm going."

A new door opened on the right, brighter than the rest. A city hung from iron chains in a violet sky. Bridges curved between floating towers. The sight made her chest ache.

She reached toward it.

The river darkened. Not yet.

"Fine. Teach me first."

The boat slowed. The sky deepened.

A shape moved beneath the surface—long, thin. Then another.

A different voice answered. A boy's voice, young but calm.

"Do not stop."

Shadows thickened, sliding along either side of the hull.

"Keep your hands inside. Count your breaths."

She counted. One. Two. Three. Four.

The river matched her count, pulling the boat faster.

"What are those?"

"Hungry. They follow people who don't know where they're going."

"That's me."

"Not today."

The river surged. The boat shot forward. The shadows lunged, and the surface flashed with light. For a second, Lia saw faces in the water—her own, then the boy's, then others. The boat slipped between the shadows.

The river smoothed. The shadows fell behind.

Lia let out her breath. "Thank you."

"You heard me," the boy said, surprised.

"I think so."

A pause. "I am called Guardian. I watch the crossings."

"Crossings to where?"

"Doors. You are near one, but you can't take it yet."

"Why not?"

"You don't know what you're choosing. If you enter on fear, the door remembers. The world on the other side will bend toward the feeling you carry."

"The river only opens for the lost," he said quietly. "For people who don't know where they belong. Once you choose, the river lets you go."

"What if I want to come back?"

"You can't. The river is a crossing, not a home. You go through, or you drown."

The voice faded. The hum remained.

Lia sat very still. When she looked down, her reflection matched her.

"Okay," she said. "Teach me. I'm listening."

The river carried her on.

Time moved like water here—sometimes fast, sometimes still, always elsewhere. The sky changed color—pale blue, then gold, then deep gray that shimmered with light.

The boat drifted toward a darker stretch where the doors disappeared. Ahead, something solid glimmered.

A shore.

It looked like broken glass spread out in a curve. Each shard reflected a different scene—a field under rain, a crowded street, a quiet bedroom. When she leaned forward, she saw herself in all of them—older in one, younger in another.

The boat touched the edge and stopped.

She stepped out. The glass didn't cut her feet. It was cool and smooth, humming faintly.

A voice came from the far side. "You made it."

A figure stood about twenty steps away. A boy, or maybe a young man—her age, maybe older.

"You're the voice," she said.

He nodded. "I didn't think you'd hear me."

"I almost didn't."

He took a few steps closer. "You're not supposed to be here yet."

"And who are you, exactly? Guardian, right?"

"That's what I'm called."

"That's not really an answer."

He smiled a little. "You're not ready for the real one."

"The river will open another door soon. You'll have to decide if you're going through."

"Why can't I just stay here?"

"This shore doesn't stay. It's only a reflection. When the river moves, this place will break apart."

She looked down. Cracks were already spreading through the glass—thin, bright lines under her feet.

"You see? It's already forgetting itself."

"Is that what I am? A memory?"

He didn't answer. His eyes—gray, maybe blue—met hers, and for a heartbeat she thought he looked sad.

A door appeared behind him, shimmering. Inside it: the garden. Lush and perfect.

"That one keeps appearing," she said.

"Because you want it to." He gestured toward it. "It's easy. Comfortable. You could forget everything there. No more guilt. No more questions."

"You're saying I shouldn't take it."

"Those doors are lies, Lia. They give you what you want, not what's real. You'll forget you ever wanted to leave."

The garden door pulsed, inviting.

She took a step toward it, defiantly.

The Guardian moved, putting himself between her and the door. "Don't."

"Why do you care?"

His jaw tightened. "How many times do I have to watch you choose the easy door?"

The words hung in the air.

"What?" she whispered.

He looked away. "You've been here before. Many times. And every time, you choose comfort over truth. Every time, you forget. Every time, I have to guide you back and hope—" He stopped himself.

"Hope what?"

"That this time will be different."

The cracks in the glass spread faster, racing toward them like lightning.

"You need to leave. Before it closes."

"I don't even know where to go."

He pointed behind her. The boat had turned itself around, waiting at the edge of the river. Beyond it, the violet city door shimmered into view—the one that made her chest ache.

"You'll find your way."

"You sound sure."

"I've seen you do it before." His voice softened. "You never remember."

"Before?"

He nodded once, slow. "Seventeen times, I've watched you drift past. Seventeen times, I've pulled you back from false doors. Seventeen times, you've forgotten me."

The shore gave a sharp sound—like ice cracking. She stumbled backward, and the Guardian reached out, steadying her by the wrist.

"What happens to you?" she asked. "When I leave?"

"I stay. I guide the next one."

"Forever?"

"Until I'm not needed anymore." He smiled. Sad, but genuine. "Go, Lia. You've been drowning long enough."

"I don't want to forget you again."

"You won't. Not this time." He stepped back. "This time, you'll remember. And you'll live. That's all I ever wanted."

The glass beneath them shattered.

Lia fell back into the boat as the current surged. She gasped, clutching the rim as the boat spun away from the collapsing shore.

Through the rush of sound, she heard him one last time:

"Choose what you feel, Lia. The door will listen."

The river roared, and the shore of glass vanished.

The river carried her fast now.

When she looked down, she could see bits of glass drifting past under the surface—small, shining pieces that reflected faces she didn't recognize.

Her heartbeat slowed as the current evened out. The hum returned—steady, low, almost kind.

"I didn't mean to break it," she said softly.

The sound under the water shifted. Not angry. Understanding.

The doors were back—dozens of them stretching along both sides of the water.

And there, brighter than all the rest: the violet city. The one that made her chest ache.

She thought of the Guardian's warning: The world on the other side will bend toward the feeling you carry.

She had no idea what feeling she carried. Fear? Curiosity? That heavy guilt.

The boat slowed. The violet city door grew brighter while the others dimmed.

The current tugged once, then stopped.

Another door appeared. Right beside the city. Small and plain, the color of ash and old stone. It didn't glow. It didn't pulse. It just... waited.

Lia stood up. The boat didn't move.

The Guardian appeared on a stretch of silver sand. He looked solid now, real.

"You came back," she said.

"One last time." He gestured to the two doors. "You have a choice to make."

"What's the gray door?"

"Your memories. All of them. Who you were. What you did. Why you're here."

She looked at the violet city, then back at the gray door. "And if I take the city?"

"You start new. Clean. No guilt. No past." He met her eyes. "But you'll forget me. Again. And everything I've tried to teach you."

"Why does it have to be one or the other?"

"Because the river doesn't let you carry both. You can have beauty or truth. Comfort or growth. But not both."

The violet city called to her—all light and wonder and the promise of belonging. The gray door sat quiet, offering nothing but the weight of whatever she'd done.

"How many times?" she asked quietly.

"What?"

"How many times have I chosen the city and forgotten you?"

He looked away. Didn't answer.

"Give me my memories," she said.

His face broke. Relief and grief at once. "You'll hate yourself."

"I already do. I just don't remember why."

He nodded slowly. The violet city began to fade. The gray door solidified, growing darker, heavier. The silver veins running through it looked like scars.

It smelled like rain and regret.

"What happens to you?" she asked. "After I'm gone?"

"I stay. I guide the next soul. I wait."

"That's not fair."

He smiled sadly. "It's what I chose. A long time ago."

"Why?"

He didn't answer. Just looked at her like he was memorizing her face.

The gray door began to open. Not with light—with shadow. Deep and cold and inevitable.

Lia walked to the edge of the boat. She could feel the pull of it. This felt like falling. Like coming home. Like drowning.

She turned back once. "Will I remember you?"

"Yes," he said quietly. "And it will hurt."

"Good."

She stepped through.

The door didn't open into light.

It opened into water.

Cold. Dark. Real.

Lia was drowning.

No—she had drowned. Was drowning. The tenses twisted together, memory and present colliding.

She gasped and found air. Found ground. Found herself on a riverbank, real and solid, the smell of mud and wet stone sharp in her nose.

And then the memories came.

A riverbank. Real water, dark and cold.

She was sixteen. Summer. The current was stronger than it looked.

A boy's hand in hers. His laugh.

Marcus. Her brother. Two years younger, braver than her, always braver.

The current pulling him. Her grip slipping.

"I've got you!" she'd screamed. But the river had other ideas.

His weight dragging her under. Water filling her lungs.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Couldn't hold on.

A choice: let go, or die with him.

She was sixteen. She was scared. She wanted to live.

She let go.

His face, sinking. Not accusing. Just... heartbroken.

His eyes wide. Surprised. Not angry—hurt. Like he couldn't believe his sister would let him go.

The funeral she didn't attend.

Couldn't face her parents. Couldn't face anyone. Couldn't face the mirror.

Years of guilt. The river that called to her one night when she couldn't take it anymore.

Three years later. Nineteen years old. Standing on a different riverbank, staring at dark water and thinking: Maybe I should have drowned with him.

Walking into the water. Wanting to forget.

The water had taken her. But not the way she expected.

It had given her exactly what she asked for.

Forget.

Lia opened her eyes.

She was on her knees in the rain. A city street. Gray. Cars passing, people walking, none of them seeing her.

She was sobbing.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Marcus, I'm so sorry."

The rain soaked through her clothes. She was cold. She was real. She was free.

And it was terrible.

The memories kept coming: his laugh, his face, the way he used to steal her fries, the way he'd looked at her that last second before the water closed over his head.

Why didn't you hold on?

Because she'd been afraid. Because she'd been young. Because she'd wanted to live.

And she'd spent three years drowning in guilt. And then she'd walked into a river and spent—how long?—drifting between worlds, forgetting and remembering and forgetting again, guided by a boy who never gave up on her even though she gave up on herself seventeen times.

She opened her eyes.

There was a puddle at her feet.

Just rainwater. But when she looked down—

His face.

Not Marcus. The Guardian.

A reflection. Looking up at her like he was pressed against glass from the other side.

Her heart stopped.

"Marcus?" she whispered.

He didn't speak. Couldn't speak. But his lips moved, and she could read them: "You're okay."

The grief crashed over her. "I'm not. I'm not okay. I remember—" She choked. "I remember letting go. I remember everything."

He was fading already. The rain was washing him away.

"I can come back," she said, frantic, hands hovering over the puddle. "I can—I can find the river again—"

He shook his head. Slow. Deliberate. Final.

"No."

"Please." She was on her knees, fingers trembling above the water. "Let me fix this. Let me save you this time—"

His expression was so gentle it hurt.

"Live," he mouthed.

"I don't know how."

"Learn."

She understood then. Fully. Completely.

The Guardian wasn't just a guardian.

He was Marcus.

Her brother. The one she'd let drown. Who had died and somehow found his way to the river between worlds, who had chosen to stay, who had guided her seventeen times, who had loved her enough to keep trying even when she kept forgetting, who had finally—finally—gotten her to choose truth over comfort.

Who had saved her. Again.

The way she couldn't save him.

"No," she whispered. "No, please—"

The puddle rippled. His face scattered into fragments of light.

She reached down.

Her fingers broke the surface. The water was cold. Just water. Nothing more. No pull. No hum. No door.

The river only opens for the lost.

And she wasn't lost anymore.

She wanted to scream. Wanted to tear open the world and dive back in.

But the river was done with her.

She had chosen truth. She had chosen memory. She had chosen to live.

And living meant leaving him behind.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the puddle, to the rain, to the ghost of a boy who had never stopped loving her. "I'm so sorry."

The puddle stilled. For one heartbeat, she saw him clearly—smiling, whole, at peace.

Then the rain washed him away.

Lia pulled her hand back.

Stood.

Her legs barely held her. The street stretched ahead—wet, gray, ordinary. No doors of light. No silver current. Just a city in the rain and a woman with no idea what comes next.

She took a step.

Her chest felt hollow. Her hands shook. Everything hurt.

She took another step.

Behind her, the puddle rippled once—like a heartbeat, like a goodbye—and went still.

Far away, in a place between worlds, a boy opened his eyes.

The river hummed around him, silver and endless. Another boat drifted into view. Another lost soul, frightened and alone.

He smiled.

"Hello," he said gently. "Don't be afraid. I'll help you find your way."

The river carried them forward.

And somewhere in a city far from rivers and magic, a woman walked through rain—grieving, guilty, alive—and learned what it meant to be free.