His voice grew raw. He asked the river where it takes the things it steals—the wooden boats, the fallen leaves, and the woman who had promised to wait for him but was swept away by a sudden summer flood.
Ionel stopped rowing and let the boat drift in the fog. He looked at the younger man and spoke in a voice as deep as the riverbed. His voice grew raw
Ionel was the only ferryman in the quiet river town of Cetate who still refused to use a motor. the fallen leaves