MYSTERY FLAVOR: “Flowers of Juniper.” 

Selections from the Cameron Cowan Journal 

Musings by Union | Avenue  

“Cum aquas veteris fluminis gustabit unus electus, columna cathedrae tremet, et umbrae  veritates invisibiles dicent. Trias congregabitur, et quod in siti incipit, in revelatione finietur.  Caelum supra frangetur, et solum ii qui per limen ligati sunt, exitum tolerabunt.” 

The river moves quietly, indifferent, carrying the scent of wet stone and iron. Mist curls along its  surface, and the early light glints off ripples, fractured and restless. From the bank, I watch. The  figure bends, hands cupped, dipping into the current. 

There is hesitation, a pause that stretches too long to be casual. Water spills over fingers, cold  and unyielding, catching the light in fleeting patterns. I notice the way their reflection wavers,  fragmented by the current and the wind. The air smells faintly of juniper, sharp and green,  unexpected in the river’s metallic tang. 

I do not intervene. 

The river moves quietly, indifferent, carrying the scent of wet stone and iron. Mist curls along its  surface, and the early light glints off ripples, fractured and restless. From the bank, I watch. His  hands cupped, he dips into the current. 

There is hesitation, a pause that stretches too long to be casual. Water spills over his fingers, cold  and unyielding, catching the light in fleeting patterns. His reflection wavers, fragmented by  current and wind. This part of the world smells faintly sharp and green, unexpected in the river’s  metallic tang. 

I do not intervene. Curiosity holds me fast, tighter than fear, tighter than caution. The river seems  to insist on distance, its quiet authority pressing against instinct. Some choices are not mine to  make, and the truth of this one, whatever it may bring, can only be witnessed. I feel it in the taut  pull of the mist against my skin, in the metallic whisper of water over stone: there is a lesson  here, but it is not mine to learn firsthand. 

He straightens suddenly, turning his gaze toward us. Three figures stand along the bank, spaced  like markers in the fog—an embodiment of the prophecy, impossible yet undeniable. The tension  in his shoulders eases slightly. A faint, almost rueful smile touches his lips. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, voice catching, “for hoarding all of the river to myself.” 

Even as he speaks, the river gives nothing in return. The choice hangs between us, fragile and  unyielding. We stand silent, caught in the current of what has already begun.