Cole found the river by accident.
Not because it was hidden.
Because it didn't advertise itself.
No shine. No wide banks. Just a narrow run of water cutting through stone, clear enough to see the bottom and cold enough to remind a man what year it was supposed to be.
He stopped there because nothing pulled him forward.
And because nothing pushed him back.
Dusty reached the bank first, drank, then lay down with his paws in the water like he'd decided this place was allowed.
Cole watched the current for a long time before he moved.
It flowed steady. Not fast. Not lazy. The kind of pace that didn't care who watched it.
He set his pack down. Unrolled his line. Hands steady despite the arm. The scar felt tight today. Not painful. Just present. Like it wanted credit for every movement.
The first cast went wide.
The second hit stone.
He adjusted.
The third dropped clean.
Time stretched.
Nothing happened.
Cole didn't mind.
He sat on a flat rock and let the quiet do what it wanted. The House didn't intrude. No pressure. No text. No sudden clarification of rules.
That was the trick of it.
Silence like this always wanted something in return.
The line twitched once near midday.
Cole lifted slow.
The fish fought just enough to feel honest. Silver flash in the water. Alive. Real.
He brought it in and killed it quick.
One fish.
That was enough.
He cooked it on a small fire shielded by stone. Ate slow. Burned his fingers. Didn't care.
Dusty got the skin and the head. Worked at it with focus.
Cole leaned back and let the sun warm his face. Closed his eyes for half a count.
That was when the memory came.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
His daughter sitting on the floor with Dusty, hands small and serious as she tried to teach him to sit. The dog had leaned his full weight into her instead, tail wagging, knocking her over.
She'd laughed.
Cole knew she had.
But he couldn't hear it.
He frowned.
Tried to pull the sound back.
Nothing came.
The shape of it was there. The warmth. The knowledge that it had existed.
But the sound itself—
Gone.
Cole opened his eyes and stared at the river.
So that's how it was now.
The House hadn't taken the memory.
Just the sharpest edge of it.
He stood and walked the bank once, checking sign.
That was when he saw the tracks.
Boots.
Recent.
Careful.
They followed the river for a while, then stopped.
No return marks.
Just… absence.
Someone had watched him fish.
Not close.
Not far.
Close enough to count how long he stayed still.
Cole felt no pressure behind his eyes.
That meant it wasn't a wager.
It was interest.
He packed up before dusk and moved camp a short distance upriver. High ground. Open sightlines. No fire.
The temperature dropped faster than it should have.
By nightfall, his breath showed.
By full dark, frost crept along the stone like it was curious.
Cole lay wrapped tight, listening to the river move under a skin of forming ice.
Dusty pressed close.
The cold didn't hurt yet.
But it promised to.
Cole stared up at the stars—sharp, indifferent points—and felt the eastward pull tug a little harder.
Not command.
Expectation.
Tomorrow, he'd move again.
Tonight, the world pretended it didn't care.
And that was how it always started.