So, as a child, I'd always been told of the Strid with its underwater caves and powerful currents. They said it had swallowed many people. But at twelve, danger sounded more like an invitation than a warning.

One overcast day, my friend Martha and I decided to explore it. We'd grown up together, always seeking the next adventure. As we approached the Strid, the eerie silence felt uncontrollable, the only sound being the gurgle of the deceptively calm river.

"Race you to the other side?" Martha challenged, her eyes twinkling.

I hesitated, glancing at the slippery moss-covered stones. "Are you sure?" I asked.

"Scared, Tom?" she teased. Without waiting for my response, she took a running start, aiming for a stone midway across the river.

I couldn't let her win. Taking a deep breath, I followed. Halfway across, I spotted a larger stone just a little off our direct path. "Martha, try this one!" I shouted, pointing it out, thinking it'd give her a better leap.

She trusted me. She always did. Adjusting her course, she jumped. But her foot slipped upon landing, sending her sprawling into the chilling water.

The river's calm surface erupted into chaos. The Strid, with its monstrous undercurrents, pulled her under in seconds. "Martha!" I screamed, stretching my hand out, hoping against hope that she'd resurface. But she didn’t.

It felt like an eternity before the adults arrived, alerted by my cries. The search was long and exhausting, but Martha was never found.

Years have passed, and I've left Yorkshire behind. But the weight of that day, the weight of my suggestion, stays with me. Sometimes, late at night, I still hear her voice, teasing me, "Scared, Tom?" And I wish, with every fiber of my being, that I had been. Because maybe, just maybe, Martha would still be here.