The Lonely Shadow of the Cold River, the Old Friend of the Rivers and Lakes, the Golden Retriever
As the morning mist curled off the cold river like silent smoke, an old golden retriever stood motionless on the edge of the water. His fur was faded now, more silver than gold, his tail low but still wagging gently, as if remembering better days. He was known by the villagers as Shadow. Not because he was dark—but because he was always there, quietly following, quietly watching, a gentle presence like a shadow that never left.
Once, many years ago, he belonged to a kind-hearted traveler who roamed the rivers and lakes of the countryside. Together, they explored jade-colored streams, sun-dappled forest trails, and fog-wrapped fishing villages. The traveler had called him “Lucky,” and lucky he was, to have lived such an adventurous life. He had saved the traveler from a river current, once. Another time, he had chased away a wild boar in the forest. But the real gift he gave was companionship—the kind that didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand anything, just stood quietly by your side through storm and sunshine.
But one day, the traveler didn’t return. Some say he drowned while fishing in a far-off lake. Others believe he simply wandered deeper into the mountains and never came back. Shadow stayed by the river where they last walked together, year after year, watching boats pass, sniffing the breeze for his scent, listening for the sound of that old bamboo flute his master used to play.
The villagers brought him food. Children threw sticks and played with him. But as the years rolled on, they grew up and left, and Shadow stayed behind. He was no longer the bright-eyed retriever chasing butterflies through tall grass. He was now the wise old soul of the riverbank, a symbol of loyalty and time.
Fishermen would say they felt comfort seeing him there before setting out. “He guards the water,” one would whisper. “He’s a friend of the rivers and lakes, you know. He knows their secrets.”
One winter morning, when the river was glazed with ice and even the birds dared not sing, the villagers noticed Shadow didn’t rise from his usual place. He lay by the reeds, peaceful, as if sleeping with a dream still warm in his heart. Maybe he had finally heard the bamboo flute. Maybe he had seen his old friend waiting on the far bank of a river none of us could see.
They buried him under the willow tree, beside the cold river. They carved no stone, but every fisherman, every boatman, every wandering traveler who passes that bend in the river feels it—the presence of the lonely shadow who once watched over the waters.
And somewhere, perhaps beyond the mist and beyond time, the golden retriever runs once more, tail high, beside the one he loved most—an old friend reunited at last in the land of endless rivers and gentle lakes.
