Her mind isn't panning for gold.
The river chatters to itself,
rolling pebbles across its tongue,
polishing them into secrets.
She stands at the bank,
hands deep in the water,
sifting through silver currents
that slip away before they can be named.
The sky hangs low,
its pockets turned inside out.
Even the sun seems careless,
dropping handfuls of light
and forgetting where they land.
Around her,
the world is busy collecting treasures
birds gathering songs,
trees hoarding green,
the tide dragging pearls
from the belly of the sea.
But her sieve comes up empty.
Only stones.
Only rust.
Only things the river
was trying to forget.
Her mind isn't panning for gold.
It is searching the wreckage
for all the years
depression buried alive.
For every future
that arrived already grieving.
For every version of herself
that quietly disappeared
while everyone elsecalled it growing up.
And each night,
she returns to the river,
not because she believes
there is something worth finding,
but because somewhere beneath the silt
lies the person she was
before her mind learned
how to mistake its own reflection
for a grave.