Fragment B12
Greek:
Ποταμοῖς τοῖς αὐτοῖς ἐμβαίνομέν τε καὶ οὐκ ἐμβαίνομεν, εἶμέν τε καὶ οὐκ εἶμεν.
English Translation (John Burnet, 1908):
“We step and do not step into the same rivers; we are and are not.”
—Heraclitus of Ephesus, circa 500 BCE
RIVER LOOP
(a translation)
The boy was told not to return to the river. So, of course, he did. The water greeted him with perfect neutrality. “I remember you,” it said, with the weariness of a public fountain.
“I was never here,” said the boy, performing sincerity with increasing difficulty.
They agreed to begin again.
He dropped a leaf into the current. The river accepted it like all the others—briefly held, then released. “Thank you,” it murmured, already forgetting.
He returned every year on his unbirthday, bearing gifts: sand, string, a mood ring set to regret. Once, he brought a small cassette labeled Evidence. The river swallowed it without ceremony.
Each time, the river adjusted its memory to fit him more precisely. Each time, he felt less like a boy and more like a placeholder.
Eventually, he stopped leaving. His feet found purchase between stones. His arms learned to bear weight. Birds nested in his hair with surprising diplomacy. The children who crossed him never looked down.
(One did. Once. But that’s another story, and also this one.)
One day, a child paused mid-crossing and asked, “Who are you?”
The bridge replied, “I remember your weight.”
The child said, “I get that a lot,” and dropped a paper boat into the water.
It bore a stamp that read Do Not Archive.
The river held it longer than usual. Then let it go.
It began again anyway.
AFTERACTION REPORT // B12 – RIVER LOOP
Filed under: Structures that Remember by Forgetting
Status: Recurrence confirmed
Classification: Emotional Infrastructure / Pattern Drift / Loop Retention (system has flagged this configuration as unstable—ignored)
This isn’t a story. It’s what happens when no one interrupts the mistake.
The river doesn’t remember. That’s how it stays the same. You’d think that would make it harmless, but forgetting is just another way of saying yes.
The boy came back too many times. Not because he meant to. Just because leaving didn’t work. And staying got easier. Eventually the stones held his feet, and his back stopped asking for permission.
He didn’t mean to become a bridge. But he didn’t say no either.
The gifts were real—sand, string, Evidence. The river took them all and offered nothing in return. Or maybe the offering was the return.
(Check timestamp. Verify.)
Now children cross him like a habit. They don’t ask who he was. Most don’t even look down. One did.
The child who asked didn’t want a name. They wanted an edge to push against. The bridge gave the closest thing it had.
Note: Do Not Archive doesn’t mean won’t be remembered. It just means you’ll be remembered wrong.
It began again anyway.
Loop Diagnostics, Ongoing
