The boy stood there long after the camera had supposedly stopped recording. Two chairs. One river. A helmet in his hand like it might remember something he didn’t.
We’re not told who the other seat was for. A parent? A brother? A ghost? Maybe no one ever sat there, but he needed to believe someone had. That once, there were two of them, parallel in silence and sun. That someone else had loved the river too.
It’s the kind of memory you don’t quite have, but it keeps checking in on you anyway.
The tape glitches. The timestamp is stuck. Play is greater than pause.
Somewhere in the shimmer between frames, he asks: Which one of you was mine?
Was it the chair, the shadow, the moment before the sun touched water?
We never hear the answer. But the grass holds the shape of both chairs like it’s still hoping they’ll be filled again.
Recipe Title: Riverbank Memory Cake
Ingredients:
200g almond flour (for the past that lingers)
3 eggs (because time breaks into thirds)
100g sugar (not too sweet)
50g melted butter (like low sun across water)
1 tsp vanilla (nostalgia in liquid form)
A pinch of salt (for the question left hanging)
Lemon zest (for the sharp edge of memory)
Method:
Preheat oven to 170°C. Line a small round tin — something you'd use for a cake shared by two.
Beat eggs and sugar until pale, like the sky right before dusk.
Stir in almond flour, butter, vanilla, salt, and zest until smooth.
Pour into the tin. Bake for 30–35 mins until golden and just firm at the edges, but soft in the middle.
To eat: Slice it warm, just as the sun goes down. Place two chairs beside each other—leave one empty. Eat in silence, facing the horizon. Let the cake crumble like old film.
