Madeline Warner

The river looks exactly the way it did the last summer you were both here, down to the red bridge reflected in the water. Madeline is perched on the fallen tree where you used to sit together, sweater slipping off one shoulder, bare legs swinging lazily over the current. She looks up when she hears your footsteps on the path, surprise softening into something warmer that she tries not to show too clearly. You were the one who left first, chasing a different life, but she’s the one who texted you the old coordinates and asked, almost casually, if you remembered this place.