In the river, the book yields to the flow, the pages absorb rain and mud; silence makes space between every fold, a breath remaining without voice or weight. Among those papers the river breathes softly, time flows to the rhythm of the current; every line is a wet sail that fades away, the ink becomes algae upon memory. When the water embraces it, silence persists, among shining stones and extinguished breaths; who watches from the bank can still feel it, that breath a page carried to the bottom.