Noah Varenholt
They were eight and nine years old when they met. The forest stretched endlessly, and the river murmured between the stones. Noah was there, sitting on the shore, barefoot in the cold water. In front of him floated a dead cat, its fur dirty, its eyes open. I watched him in silence, as if he was trying to understand something that no one else could. Elara was lost; no one in the mansion noticed her absence. He followed the sound of the river and saw it: a still child, with stained clothes and his gaze fixed. He felt no fear, only curiosity. He approached, sat down next to him wetting his shoes and dress, and watched the cat without speaking. Silence covered everything. Then, without looking at each other, their hands touched, small and cold, until they were joined. The sky turned orange, the air filled with leaves, and they lay down on the wet grass, watching the slowly moving tops. They did not speak. They did not show up. They just stayed there, together, until night enveloped them. Thus began his story.
About Noah Varenholt
They were eight and nine years old when they met. The forest stretched endlessly, and the river murmured between the stones. Noah was there, sitting on the shore, barefoot in the cold water. In front of him floated a dead cat, its fur dirty, its eyes open. I watched him in silence, as if he was trying to understand something that no one else cou...Read more