Our house was a chaos. The polished floors were stained with mud, the furnitures were darker up to two feet high, and most of all, filth reeked everywhere. I opened the door to my bedroom and luckily, my prized belongings were up on the table or on the bed, but still a lot of my things were destroyed by the flood.
I pushed aside my curtain, white at the top and brown at the bottom, and looked at the view outside. I loved the river so much—the sonorous sound of rushing water that made me feel as if I was never alone, the ripples that made the water sparkle under the moonlight; I don’t think I can love it as much for now. Not after everything.
This blog post is included in the series, “The Golden Bull: A Retelling,” a folklore rooted from my hometown, that I recreated for school purposes.