lost flows

The river was gone.

It wasn't low, or dry from drought. It had disappeared, completely-like someone had scooped it up with a giant ladle and carried it away. The riverbed, once silver and alive, lay bare, its stones exposed like bones under torn skin. Cracked mud snaked across the bottom in long, jagged lines. The air hung heavy with silence, disturbed only by the occasional caw of a blackbird overhead.

Nia Everhart stood in the middle of the old Vale Bridge, her fingers clenched tight around the rusted metal railing. She didn't speak. She didn't move. Her heart beat like thunder in her chest, thudding louder than the silence around her. The dream still clung to her skin-Milo's voice, rising up through murky water, calling her name.

She hadn't wanted to believe it.

She'd woken at 4:17 a.m. sharp, sweat-soaked, heart pounding, a chill running down her spine. In the dream, her brother was reaching for her, his fingers just breaking the surface, eyes wide and terrified beneath the water. She'd rushed to his room only to find his bed empty, sheets tangled and cold.

Now, here she was.

Staring at the place where the river should have been. And there was no sign of Milo.

Behind her, tires crunched over gravel as other townsfolk began to arrive. First Mr. Dorn with his pickup truck. Then the elderly Granger sisters, muttering prayers under their breath. A couple of teenagers from school leaned over the rail, filming videos for their social feeds. It felt wrong-so wrong-to see them laughing, to hear the tinny sound of music from someone's phone echoing against the dead riverbed.

"He probably just went into town early," her mother had said, still groggy when Nia shook her awake. But her mother's eyes had flickered toward Milo's empty bed, and something in her voice had cracked. She hadn't followed Nia. She hadn't said goodbye.

Nia checked her phone. No signal. No messages. No Milo.

She walked off the bridge and down the embankment, the soles of her sneakers crunching over dry twigs and pebbles. The earth beneath her felt hollow, almost false-like she was walking on a stage set built to look like the river she'd grown up with.

Her eyes scanned the banks for any sign: a trail, footprints, his backpack, anything.

And then she saw it.

Milo's bike, propped carelessly against the willow tree. The kickstand was down, the chain still glinting with fresh oil. A half-empty bottle of lemonade lay on the grass beside it, beads of condensation still clinging to the plastic.

She knelt next to the bottle, touched it.

Cold.

He had been here. And not long ago.

Nia's throat tightened. Her voice caught in her chest. She turned slowly, eyes scanning the banks, the brush, the trees. And then-she saw it.

A small handprint in the dry mud. Not pressed into it, not indented-drawn, like a perfect etching. Almost too perfect.

"Milo?" she called, her voice cracking.

No answer. Just the wind rustling through the reeds and the dry creak of a branch above her.

Suddenly, a splash echoed behind her-sharp, quick, impossible.

She whipped around.

Nothing.

The river was still gone.

But the air had changed. Warmer. Heavier. She could smell salt now. Not the usual earthy river scent-but something older, something that didn't belong. Like the sea after a storm.

And then she saw it: a shimmer in the air, a barely-there ripple floating above the riverbed like heat haze. It pulsed, faint and slow, before fading back into nothing.

Nia stepped forward, breath shallow. Her hand moved instinctively to the river pendant she always wore-an old, smoothed blue stone Milo had given her last year. It was warm against her chest. Warmer than it should be.

Her phone buzzed.

She jerked it out of her pocket.

One message.

> "Find the flows before the silence takes him."

No number. No contact. No trace of where it had come from.

And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the message vanished.

Nia stared at the screen, hands trembling.

She looked up once more at the riverbed. At the missing water. At the silence.

She didn't know how or why, but one thing was suddenly, terribly clear.

The river hadn't dried up.

It had been taken.

And so had Milo.