One day, a small boy came to the riverbank. He asked the river, “Do your waters ever end?” The river laughed and replied, “As long as the mountains cry, I will sing.” The boy remembered those words. Twenty-five years later, he returned, now a young man. The river still flowed, but thinner now. The river asked, “Why have you changed?” The young man smiled, “So have you.”
The river stayed silent. On its body now stood dams, roads, factories. Its banks were no longer home to quiet conversations. Instead of children’s laughter, machines roared. Its waters, once crystal clear, had turned muddy. Plastic floated in its arms, and its voice had grown faint.
Still, one morning, an old man came and sat by the river. His eyes were teary, but his smile was gentle. “You’re still here,” he said. “I thought you might be gone.” The river trembled gently, like a long sigh.
The old man dipped his hand into the water and whispered, “Like you, I’ve changed too, but I’ve kept the memories alive.” The river flowed softly, as if saying, “It’s the memories that keep me alive.”
One day, a little girl sat by the river with a notebook in her hand. She began to write a story about the river. It started like this—
*“Once, the river was vast…”*
good lik
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