Some places never change, yet everything around them does.
In a small station wrapped in mist and memories, a river flowed — silent, patient, waiting.
This is the story of a man who listened to that river, even when the world had forgotten how.
The down passenger train had just pulled away from the small countryside station.
Nathan, the stationmaster, adjusted his cap and turned to his new assistant, saying calmly, "I'm leaving."
The assistant looked up at the grey, heavy sky, as if searching for an answer in the clouds, and simply replied, "Yes, sir."
Nathan gazed at the sky and asked, "Will it rain today?"
The assistant, unsure, replied, "Maybe... no, sir."
Five days of relentless rain had changed the world around them.
The earth was soaked, the air smelled of wet leaves, and the once quiet river near the station now roared like a beast.
Nathan walked slowly toward the riverbank, boots squelching in the mud. It had been raining continuously for five days and it stopped this afternoon. The river had not been seen for five days. Nathan began to feel as curious as a little boy when they get to see their favorite thing after a long while.
With the clouds in the sky, it might start raining heavily again in a few moments. So be it. If he didn’t sit quietly on one side of the bridge and watch the river for a while, he wouldn’t survive.
Five days of torrential rain, I wonder what has given the river its strange appearance today! The fields on both sides were submerged in water. As he walked, holding onto the high embankment of the railway, he looked to both sides and tried to imagine the rain-flower image of the river.
It’s a bit unusual for Nathan to have so much affection for the river at the age of 30! Not just because of his age, but also because he is the stationmaster of a station, no matter how small or insignificant the task.
He was one of those responsible for controlling the rapid movement of mail, passenger, and freight trains day and night. Was it fitting for him to be so obsessed with the river? He understood everything, he just couldn’t explain himself. He seemed to enjoy his own madness.
Although it may seem unusual, he could give an excuse for loving the river like this. He was born by the river, he grew up by the river, and he had loved the river forever. The rivers in his country may not have been as big as this one, but who can count the big and small in childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood? That lifeless, slow-flowing river of the country had been his beloved, like a sick, weak relative. When he grew up, he saw that the slow stream of the river almost dried up during a dry year. He was nearly in tears — the way a person cries when a close relative suffers from a terminal illness and is about to die.
Nathan was stunned when he first looked at the river as he approached it. The excitement he had witnessed in the muddy waters of the river, which had been nourished by the rainwater five days earlier, seemed to him an expression of complete joy.
Today, it seemed that the river had become angry. The darker, murky water was swelling and foaming, rushing away like a force of nature. Until now, Nathan had thought of the river as narrow and slow-moving. The image of the river he had known for four years seemed even more terrifying, more unfamiliar.
Sitting at the end of the pillar made of bricks, mortar, and cement in the middle of the bridge, Nathan watched the river every day. He went and sat there today too.
The shape of the river today seemed to have created a different kind of vortex. The water had risen so high that it seemed like you could reach out and touch it if you wanted to.
Nathan felt a great sense of joy. He searched his pocket and took out an old letter, then tossed it into the stream. In the blink of an eye, the letter disappeared! Because of his madness, the water seemed alive to him today. The letter seemed to have quickly hidden itself, joining in the game with him.
For two days, Nathan had painstakingly written a five-page letter to his wife, filled with the pain of separation, in tune with the relentless rain outside. The letter was in his pocket. He felt a little pity for it, but he couldn't control the temptation to play with the river. He started tearing off pages one by one, crumpling them up, and throwing them into the water.
Then the rain came down, what a torrential downpour! After resting for an hour, the clouds seemed to have gathered new strength.
Nathan sat down and started to get wet, but he didn't get up. An unheard-of sound was coming from the river, and the sound of the rain suddenly mixed with it, creating such a combination that Nathan's childish joy began to fade from his mind. He felt like listening to this extremely sweet sound. His whole body was becoming numb, exhausted.
Gradually, the light of day began to fade, and darkness fell all around. The rain subsided for a moment, then began to pour down heavily again. A painful realization, like a sudden jolt from sleep at the sound of a train passing over a bridge, disoriented Nathan for a moment. Then he stood up with great difficulty.
Nathan began to feel a deep, unsettling fear. It suddenly occurred to him that he should never have sat so calmly for so long, just a few feet above the roaring waters of this river, so furious with anger. The river, once a peaceful companion, now seemed like a beast, ready to swallow anything in its path.
His heart raced, and for the first time, he doubted the safety of the bridge beneath him. He didn’t believe that any bridge — whether made of bricks, concrete, cement, stone, or iron — could stand against the sheer force of this river, so wild with rage. The thought of being swept away, of the earth and the structure giving way to the river’s might, gripped him tightly.
Nathan walked back to the station, his steps cautious in the dark, his hand gripping the railing for support. As he walked, a cold realization settled in. He understood the reason for the river's rebellion. The river, in its furious rage, seemed to want to break the bridge and sweep it away, shattering the man-made embankments on both sides, and reclaiming its natural path, free from human control.
But would it succeed?
Even if it could, would the people allow it? Whose people had built the very bridges and dams that the river sought to destroy?
Nathan wondered, as he trudged through the rain, about the fate of his homeland. This deep, wide river — how long would it take for it to become like the lifeless, dry rivers he had known as a child? The ones that had nearly dried up under the heat of a fierce summer, the ones that had nearly disappeared, leaving only the memory of their past power.
Nathan had once felt a deep pride in the freshly painted bridge near the station. Its smooth surface had been a testament to progress, something that made him feel connected to the world beyond the river. But today, as he stood on the edge, looking at the furious waters, he wondered, What was this bridge really for?
Before he could finish the thought, the answer arrived — the No. 7 Down passenger train, cutting through the rain and darkness, barreled toward him from behind. It crushed the question in an instant, its powerful roar drowning out the river’s voice.
The bridge... it was made for me. It was needed for me. The bridge stood not just for progress or protection, but as a reminder of his place, of his duty — of his quiet submission to forces greater than himself.
