The River That Runs Backward
The first time Mateo saw the river flow against gravity, he thought his eyes deceived him. The current, thick and shimmering in the dawn light, climbed the rocks as if guided by invisible hands, curling upward, defying all natural order. The birds, usually raucous in the morning, had fallen eerily silent, their usual chatter replaced by an unsettling hush that seemed to press against his ears. A fisherman by trade, he had spent decades reading the waters, deciphering their moods and secrets, but this—this was something else entirely. The sight of water rebelling against its nature made the hair on his arms stand on end. He stepped closer, gripping the rough bark of a tree to steady himself, and watched in stunned silence as the impossible unfolded before him.
He cast his net out of instinct, watching the water ripple in reverse, as if time itself had forgotten how to behave. When he pulled it back, tangled within the mesh was an old leather-bound book, its pages damp but legible. The title read The Life of Mateo Fernández.
He stared at the name. His name. His fingers trembled as he turned the pages, only to find his own childhood described in ink, down to the smallest detail—his mother’s lullabies, the scent of her warm bread on stormy nights, his father’s departure when he was just seven years old. The way he had cried himself to sleep that night, clutching the frayed edge of his blanket. Even the scar on his left knee from climbing the mango tree outside his home was there, immortalized in perfect script. But then, the entries changed. They spoke of choices he never made, paths he never walked, a life that wasn’t his—yet somehow was.
The next morning, Mateo returned, his mind restless with unanswered questions. The river continued its impossible ascent, its liquid path twisting and climbing like an unseen force dictated its will. This time, he retrieved a pocket watch, its hands spinning counterclockwise in an eerie, soundless dance. As he held it, time around him seemed to stutter—birds moving in slow motion, waves freezing for brief moments before resuming their course. When he glanced at his reflection in the water, his face flickered between youth and age, as if the river were unraveling him from existence and stitching him back together in a pattern he did not understand.
Each day brought something new. A photograph of a woman he had never met yet somehow loved, her eyes filled with a quiet knowing. A letter addressed to him in handwriting he recognized as his own, yet the words spoke of regrets he had not yet lived. A wedding ring that fit his finger perfectly, though he had never married. The pieces of an alternate life gathered in his small fishing shack, painting the portrait of a man he both was and was not. His dreams became invaded by memories that did not belong to him, waking with the taste of a past that had never happened lingering on his tongue. The line between what was real and what could have been began to blur.
Then, on the seventh day, the river carried a final offering—a mirror, its frame worn by time, its glass slightly distorted. When he peered into it, he saw not his own reflection, but the version of himself described in the book. A man who had taken different turns, made different choices, lived and loved and lost in ways he never had. The reflection stared back, lifting a hand in invitation, his eyes filled with an unsettling mix of sorrow and curiosity.
Mateo reached out—and the world shifted.
He was standing on the opposite bank, the river now flowing as it should. His shack was gone, the objects from the water vanished as if they had never existed. His hands were unfamiliar, rougher, aged in ways they hadn’t been moments before. A wedding band gleamed on his finger, solid and undeniable. A voice called his name from a house that had never stood there before, warm and filled with the weight of years shared together.
He turned, and she was there—the woman from the photograph, her face aglow with recognition, her eyes filled with years of shared history he did not remember, yet suddenly did. A lifetime unspooled within him, memories reshaping, rewriting. He had always been here. He had never been anywhere else.
And across the river, barely visible in the reflection of the water, another Mateo stood on the opposite shore, watching him with eyes full of questions he would soon answer. The river, ever flowing, carried on, whispering stories of lives unlived, waiting for the next soul to listen.
Sometimes, the past we never lived waits just beyond the current.
Note:
Thank you for reading “The River That Runs Backward”! This is a story in a series created for avid readers and English learners who want to enjoy captivating tales while practicing their language skills. Stay tuned for more stories and language tips to enhance your journey!
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Short Stories / Cuentos Cortos
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