Rivers are usually associated with happy events; family picnics, romantic picnics, joyous days of children and their parents fishing together or just listening to the water. But that day, the rushing currents swallowed my laughter, cold and mocking. It dove deeper and deeper until it drowned in the secrets of the river and became silent.
I, Zia Somerset was crying, not laughing.
I sat on the grassy bank as I skipped one stone after the other.
They fluttered like wounded birds across the water.
The ripples painted secrets on the surface,
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