The next night, Sol went to the river, though a strange weight pressed on his chest as he approached. The air was colder than usual, the wind sharper, as if the city itself knew something had shifted.

He waited by the railing, his breath clouding the air, but Wren didn't come. He checked his watch, then the path behind him, half-expecting to see her figure emerging from the shadows, her scarf trailing in the breeze.

But the river was silent, the only sound the faint rush of water against the rocks below.

He tried to tell himself it didn't mean anything. Maybe she was late. Maybe she'd gotten caught up in something. But the unease in his chest wouldn't settle.

For the first time, the thought crossed his mind like a shadow he couldn't shake: What if she doesn't come back?

✩

The following days were the same. Sol returned to the river each night, his steps heavy with the weight of anticipation, his hope dwindling with every empty hour that passed. The world seemed quieter now, emptier, as though it had lost its color.

He wandered the paths they'd walked together, tracing the places where her voice had once filled the silence. The clearing with the wildflowers. The spot where they'd drawn with chalk. The empty lot with the swing set, now rusted and abandoned, its creaks swallowed by the wind.

She was everywhere, and nowhere.

✩

One evening, as the sky turned a deep, bruised purple, Sol found himself back at the river. He leaned against the railing, staring at the water, and felt the weight of everything pressing down on him.

"Wren," he whispered, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer.

But the night gave him nothing in return.

He closed his eyes, letting the silence wrap around him. And then, in the stillness, he felt it—a memory, sharp and vivid, surfacing like a fragment of a dream.

Her laugh. The way she'd brushed chalk dust from her hands. The wildflower she'd given him, now dried and brittle in his jacket pocket.

And something else, something he hadn't let himself notice before.

She had no phone. No real name. No tangible proof that she existed beyond the moments they'd shared.

He pressed his hands to his face, his breath catching in his throat.

✩

That night, Sol searched his apartment, looking for something—anything—that could tether her to reality. The flower. The candle stub. The smudge of chalk he'd carried back on his coat.

They were all there, but they felt different now, like artifacts from a dream he couldn't quite remember.

He opened the notebook he kept by his bed, flipping through the pages. There, scrawled in the margins, were fragments of conversations they'd had—her words, her jokes, her quiet confessions.

But the more he read, the more he realized something chilling: the handwriting was his.

✩

The final night, Sol returned to the river one last time. The air was biting, the sky cloudless, the stars scattered like shattered glass across the darkness.

He stood at the edge of the railing, his hands gripping the cold metal, and stared at the water below.

"I need to know," he said aloud, his voice breaking the silence.

And then, as if summoned by the weight of his desperation, she was there.

Wren stood a few feet away, her scarf trailing in the wind, her eyes softer than he'd ever seen them. She didn't speak at first, just watched him, her expression heavy with something he couldn't name.

"You came back," he said, his voice trembling.

"I never left," she replied.

He frowned, shaking his head. "I don't understand. I looked for you. I tried to find you."

Her smile was faint, bittersweet. "You've always had me, Sol. Even when you didn't know it."

The words cut through him like a blade, sharp and merciless. "What does that mean? Why won't you just tell me?"

She stepped closer, her presence as light as a whisper. "Because you already know."

"No," he said, his voice rising. "I don't. I don't know anything. You're the only thing that's made sense, and now—" He broke off, his hands trembling.

"Sol," she said softly, her voice steady but fragile, like the first crack in a sheet of ice. "You created me."

The world seemed to tilt beneath him. He stared at her, his mind racing, trying to make sense of her words.

"That's not—" He shook his head, his voice faltering. "You're real. You're here. I've seen you, talked to you, touched you."

Her gaze didn't waver. "You needed me. So I was here."

"No." His voice cracked, raw and desperate. "You can't—don't say that. You're not just—"

Her hand brushed his cheek, warm and impossibly gentle. "I'm the part of you that wouldn't let go," she said. "The part that wanted to believe there was still something worth holding onto."

Tears blurred his vision, and he clutched her hand as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling. "Don't leave," he whispered. "Please."

Her smile was soft, full of sorrow. "I was never meant to stay."

And just like that, she was gone.

✩

Sol stood there, alone by the river, the night pressing in around him. The ache in his chest was unbearable, a hollow space where something had once been.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wildflower she'd given him, its petals brittle and faded.

As he let it fall into the water below, he whispered her name one last time, his voice breaking on the wind.

And the river carried it away.