What the River Remembers

The markings cover every surface — gouged into rotting wood, pressed into tarnished metal — and together they form something unmistakable: a map. The tributary coils across the walls in obsessive loops, a river eating its own tail, endlessly recursive. Your flashlight trembles as you trace the lines.

At the center of every loop, the same symbol repeats. Small. Deliberate. Familiar. You push up your left sleeve without meaning to. Your father's ink stares back at you — identical, down to the three small crosshatch marks at its base. He said it was a sailor's charm. He never explained more.

The river knows your name. It has always known.