The morning sun painted the village in shades of gold and green.
She walked the familiar path with her basket pressed against her hip. Inside, wildflowers bobbed with each step. Purple violets and white daisies and yellow buttercups that would brighten her mother's table.
Life was simple here. Good, even.
The river sang its endless song as she approached the water's edge. This was her favorite part of the morning walk. The place where the current slowed and the fish jumped and the world felt peaceful.
But today something was different.
A shape on the muddy bank. Dark against the brown earth. Too large to be driftwood. Too still to be alive.
She dropped her basket and ran.
The boy was maybe her age. Twelve or thirteen. His clothes were torn and waterlogged. His skin was pale as winter frost. His lips were blue.
But his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
Alive. Barely.
She grabbed his arms and pulled. He was heavier than she expected. Dead weight that barely moved despite her efforts.
"Father!" she called toward the village. "Father, come quickly!"
Her voice carried across the fields. Over the gentle hills where their sheep grazed. Past the mill wheel that turned steadily in the current.
This was a place where people heard each other. Where calls for help were answered.
Heavy footsteps approached through the grass. Her father appeared, brown hair catching the morning light. His sleeves were rolled up from the early work. Dirt under his fingernails from tending their small garden.
"What is it?" he asked. Then he saw.
"Found him by the water," she explained breathlessly. "He's alive but barely."
Her father knelt beside the still form. Pressed his ear to the boy's chest. Checked his breathing with practiced motions.
"Drowned man," he said matter-of-factly. "Or near enough."
He lifted the boy easily. Settled him across his shoulders like a sack of grain. No ceremony. No wasted motion. Just the practical response of someone who'd dealt with river accidents before.
"Take him to Henrik," her father decided. "He'll know what to do."
They walked through the village square. Past the well where women gathered to gossip. Past the blacksmith's forge where hammer strikes rang like church bells.
A few people stopped to stare. Whispered questions about the stranger. But no one interfered. In a village this small, everyone trusted everyone else's judgment.
Henrik's house stood at the far end of the main street. Larger than the others but not ostentatious. Stone walls and timber beams and windows that let in more light than most people could afford.
He'd been a nobleman once. Before he'd walked away from obligations and inheritance and all the complications that came with noble blood.
Now he was just Henrik. The closest thing their village had to a learned man.
Her father knocked with his free hand. The boy still draped across his shoulders like he weighed nothing.
The door opened to reveal exactly what she'd expected. Long blonde hair that caught every ray of sunlight. Blue eyes that seemed amused by some private joke. The kind of slender build that suggested good breeding and regular meals.
"Well," Henrik said with genuine pleasure. "What have we here?"
"River gift," her father replied. "Still breathing but not by much."
"Bring him in. Quickly now."
The interior of Henrik's house always surprised her. Books lined the walls. More books than anyone in the village had ever seen. Maps hung beside paintings of distant places. Everything was clean and organized and somehow elegant without being pretentious.
"Dining table," Henrik directed. "The light is better there."
Her father laid the boy down carefully. The polished wood was probably worth more than their entire house but Henrik didn't seem concerned about water damage.
He leaned over the still form with professional interest. Fingers checking pulse points. Eyes examining the pale skin for signs of trauma.
"Hypothermia," he diagnosed after a moment. "Exhaustion. But nothing that won't heal with warmth and rest."
He straightened up with a satisfied smile. "You saved him in time, Mr. Hero."
The casual nickname made her father grunt with embarrassment. But she could see the relief in his expression.
"Will he be all right?" her father asked.
"Should be. Young bodies are resilient. Few days of proper care and he'll be back on his feet."
Henrik moved around the table with easy confidence. Checking the boy's breathing again. Feeling for injuries they might have missed.
"Foreign," he observed. "Look at his clothes. The cut of the fabric. This isn't local work."
"Long way from home then," her father said.
"Very long way. Which raises interesting questions about how he ended up in our river."
They talked while they worked. Her father asking practical questions about care and recovery. Henrik explaining what needed to be done with the patient manner of someone who genuinely enjoyed teaching.
She watched it all with growing fascination. The way Henrik's hands moved with such confidence. The way her father deferred to knowledge he didn't possess. The easy friendship between two very different men.
"We should move him to the spare room," Henrik decided. "Let him sleep properly."
They carried the boy together. Through Henrik's house to a small bedroom that was probably more comfortable than anywhere the stranger had ever slept.
Clean white sheets. A mattress that didn't sag. Windows that let in the afternoon light without letting in the cold.
Henrik tucked the boy in with surprising gentleness. Like a mother putting a child to bed. Or maybe like a man who remembered what it felt like to be far from home and in need of kindness.
"There," he said with satisfaction. "Now we wait."
"How long?" her father asked.
"Hard to say. Could be hours. Could be days. Depends on how far he's traveled. How long he was in the water."
They left the boy to sleep. Closed the door softly behind them. Returned to the main room where afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows.
"I'll check on him regularly," Henrik promised. "Make sure he's warm. See that he drinks something when he wakes up."
"Good of you," her father said simply.
"Nonsense. This is what we do here. We take care of each other."
It was true. Their village had always been that way. A place where strangers were welcomed. Where people helped without expecting payment. Where kindness was just part of daily life.
She thought about the boy sleeping in Henrik's spare room. About whatever journey had brought him to their river. About what he would think when he woke up in a place so different from wherever he'd come from.
"Will you tell us when he wakes up?" she asked.
Henrik smiled at her with genuine warmth. "Of course. I suspect you'll want to know what story he has to tell."
They walked home as the sun began to set. Her father carrying her abandoned basket of flowers. Both of them quiet with their own thoughts.
"Think he's running from something?" her father asked as they reached their own door.
"Probably," she replied. "Most people don't end up in rivers by accident."
"Well. Whatever he's running from, he's safe now."
That night she lay in her bed and listened to the sounds of the village settling into sleep. The distant lowing of cattle. The whisper of wind through grain fields. The gentle murmur of the river that had brought them a stranger.
Tomorrow the boy would wake up. Tomorrow they would learn his story. Tomorrow their quiet village life would become a little more complicated.
But tonight he was safe. Tonight he was warm and dry and cared for.
Tonight that was enough.
Outside her window, the river continued its ancient song. Carrying away secrets. Bringing unexpected gifts.
Just like it always had.
Just like it always would.