Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

His hand trembled as he picked it up. He did not know why he took it. Perhaps because it was the only thing left that connected him to her. Perhaps because some buried part of him still hoped the words inside were true. He stepped out into the flood. The water was at his ankles as he left the cottage. Then his knees. Then his waist. The path he had walked for forty years was gone. In its place was a surging river that pulled at his legs with invisible hands. He leaned into his staff. Each step