The December sun was setting over the quiet inland sea as I walked alone along the river, slowly approaching the nearby mouth. I call it a river, but it’s more of a stream. Not even ten meters wide, a meter deep at most, rolling with reed-covered sandbars and clumps of trash washed down from the towns dotting its length. This town was the last of those, standing where the river flows into the sea.

Here, it met the beach and flowed over it in a winding curve that changed with every rainstorm as the sand shifted in its own fluid way. Above the beach, there was a massive plate of riveted steel on hydraulic pivots—a floodgate to block the river in case of tsunami or storm surge in the autumn typhoon season.

I visited this place nearly every day. The river mouth was a prime spot for birds, especially kingfishers. They streak over the water like flying jewels, all turquoise and sienna and keen eyes and sharp beaks. Too beautiful to be so common.

I approached slowly, not wanting to spook any birds that might be there, which was silly because the passing cars and bikes took no such pains. Still. It is always better to go slowly when seeking beauty.

It was late in the day, and the setting sunlight flowed heavy and golden over the calm river surface, like honey. There were two bridges near the gate, one a bit upstream for cars and a pedestrian bridge downstream just inside the floodgate, and the bridges framed a section of river like a painting.

I moved to the middle of the upstream bridge to watch a handful of eastern spot billed ducks approaching from under the gate. I took a few shots as they passed beneath me, then noticed the silhouettes.

Beyond the gate, the beach had encroached on the river mouth, leaving a long tongue of sand that nearly blocked it entirely. A narrow channel let the water out at one side, but the near-total blockage meant you could essentially walk across the whole width of the river. Someone was doing that now, I assumed, because though they were hidden by the far bridge and the gate, the sun revealed their shapes.

The sun approaching the distant horizon cast their wavering silhouettes on the golden water. Children, from the size and the way they seemed to take such glee in movement. Running, chasing, leaping, the ground they tread casting a pool of shadow to be their stage.

I focused and shot, trying to capture the frantic motion. I was mesmerized by the shimmering dark forms, their limbs stretching and fading into the wave-dancing light.

Soon, the children ran off along the beach. Their whoops and screams faded into the distance.

The light was fading by the moment as the sun sank lower. I took one more fruitless look around for birds, then decided to simply enjoy the play of darkening color across the water. But when I looked again, there was a single shadow there, standing, still.

The figure seemed to reach out. The distortion of the waves made it seem almost to be waving at me. Beckoning. Whoever it was had no way to even know I was there, of course. The gates and bridge blocked me, and I could cast no shadow. But, still, I was drawn.

I once more followed the river toward the sea, climbing a gentle slope up toward the stone and concrete walkway that lined the beach for most of its length. When I reached the top, and the sandbar came into sight, I saw no one. The sand was empty.

I looked to each side. No one in sight. No figures running, no children hiding. I descended from the walk toward the river and checked for any nooks or crannies along the gate where someone might hide. Nothing

Where could they have gone? No one had come past me on either side of the river. No one lurked in the shadow of the bridge.

But there had been someone.

I walked to the sand bar. It was pocked with footprints, a meaningless jumble left by who knew how many feet.

I stood where I thought the beckoning figure must have been. I looked toward the sea, where the sun was just beginning to edge the horizon. I turned back to the water. The patch of golden light was staining red in the dusk, and the pool of darkness at my feet grew upward, swallowing my legs. But, no. Not just mine. There were two silhouettes there. Mine and…

A still figure, dark on the water, stood to my right. Where I had walked just a moment ago. The warmth of the sun on my back could not dispel the chill that ran down my spine. The hairs on my neck stood tall. I was frozen in place, the camera hanging from my neck, my arms limp.

The dark figure on the water’s surface reached out. Toward me.

A cold hand slipped into mine as the sun finally sank and darkness spread upon the surface of the water.

It pulled me forward, and I found no resistance within me. Together, we stepped forward into the cold dark. It was deeper than it looked. Than it should have been.

But no. I opened my eyes to find I still stood on the sand, dry and alone. The sun had set, and the sky was masked in streaks of purple and scarlet. The water was dark and bare.

I began my way home along the dusk shrouded river and through streets now lit in islands of white light, but I could not help but feel that I no longer walked alone.

(Story and photographs © Jim Rion 2025. No unauthorized use or reproduction. No AI was used in the creation or editing or anything else of this work because AI is the devil. If you liked this, let me know. If not, don’t.)