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  I watched the boats float down the autumn river, my mother and father sitting beside. Mine was made with the pages of my favorite piece; the faint scribbles of lead glinting in the sunlight as music notes stared longingly at the water. My father's was far simpler: charcoal-stained and amateurishly folded, but you could tell he worked hard on it.

  Mother's was different. Even though it was faded and the paper a milky yellow, the sight of a painted cherry blossom embedded itself on the side- every so often dipping in the current while it made its journey down the blue.

  Along the route lay fallen limbs and jagged stones, breaking through the tranquility of the moment. The boats weaved their way carefully but not without struggle, branches reaching and probing at the sides of the crafts as they continued toward the horizon. My father's and mine managed to avoid most of the damage, but my mother took the worst of it. Water sloshed into the sides and tipped her boat unevenly. Slowing down, it lodged itself behind a stone not long after, its cherry blossom fading as it sank below.

  I burrowed into my jacket, shielding myself from the unwelcoming wind and brittle leaves that surrounded us. My mother just laughed softly, however, and although I couldn't feel it, she placed her lips upon my forehead and pulled me closer.

  Our music and charcoal continued to push forward against the tide. They were now caught in a dance, swirled in circles as they attempted to avoid the stones themselves. Whirlpools sent them tumbling in a flurry, crashing into each other as they fought for survival.

  I hadn't even realized it, but my lips were moving too. They were counting. What were they counting? I didn't know.

  Rhythmically, they whispered in four count as the boats battered themselves.

  One, two, three, four...

  That's when I noticed it from the corner of my eye.

  One, two, three, four...

  The butterfly floated precariously, soft mist against its delicate wings as it watched. So delicate in fact, that a small piece was torn from its left wing, leaving it only with one good eye and a marred second.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  One, two, three, four...

  My own tempo matched that of the bystander. Not one flap too fast, not one whisper too slow.

  One, two, three, four...

  Though I didn't know if I found any comfort in the little creature.

  I looked around for any other butterflies but to no avail. That wasn't a surprise. They were supposed to have migrated south by now. As pretty as the barren trees were, it was no landscape for a small beauty like it.

  The river sighed in relief as its growling waters began to retreat, weary hands letting go. Our boats trembled in the cold, however, trying desperately to adjust to the peace that they were given. As father's gray bled in the water, the butterfly continued to watch ever so curiously.

  One, two, three...

  Its wings finally came to a slow stop. Maybe because it was tired. Maybe because it was confident. Feet outstretched, it landed softly on the bow of my boat, comforting the vessel.

  Ahead, the waterfall roared.

  ?

  The sound of ringing bells snapped me out of my thoughts. Eight echoes in total, filling the air in echoing waves. I shook my head, letting out a deep breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding. Stabilizing myself, I looked over to him and raised an eyebrow, my hands clenched tightly around the handle of my suitcase.

  He simply nodded. "We should go."

  My father stood up slowly, brushing off the foliage that had accumulated from his time river watching. Pulling out the crumpled map from his pocket, he shielded his glasses from the sun with his hand, taking time to mull over the route so we didn't get lost in the train station. A small hum escaped his lips, pausing only when he didn't quite understand something. "The train leaves in an hour, right?" I asked, tapping my foot in rhythm.

  "Mhm. But we should still make our way over there. The last thing we need is to spend another night in this city. Now come on, I think I know which entrance to take..." he answered, voice still soft as ever.

  In all honesty, I still wasn't used to it.

  Stuffing the map back into his coat, he grabbed his luggage and began to make his way down the cobblestone path, its wheels rattling against the rough surface.

  I began to follow suit soon after, pacing myself slower than he did. I was in no mood to ruin my shoes, to rough them with sticks and dying leaves. In the distance lay the silver buildings and faded signs, hidden behind the dense wood that surrounded us. With my heart beating in my chest, I forced myself to look down and follow my father's steps, which thudded harshly as if he too were ready to run. Yet, curiosity got the better of me. I hesitated and looked behind me one last time.

  The boats were gone, out of sight, and so was that marred butterfly.

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