He found a nugget the size of his thumb on the third day. By the end of the month, three more men had pitched tents within earshot of the falls. By spring, it was a camp. By summer, a town with no name but the one on the creek: Seraphim.
And the falls still fell.
But the mountain doesn’t look away. And the water remembers. Seraphim Falls
The last thing he saw, before the water filled his lungs, was a face looking up at him from the submerged rock. Not his own. A woman’s face. Copper eyes. Smiling. He found a nugget the size of his thumb on the third day