The road bent sharply to the left and began to descend, following the contour of a small valley. The sound of running water reached me before I saw it — a low murmur, steady and calm, like someone whispering to themselves. The air changed too; it grew cooler, carrying the scent of wet stone and distant rain.
When the trees parted, I saw the bridge. It stretched across a narrow river, made of weathered stone, its arches mirrored perfectly in the still water below. Moss grew thick along its edges, and small white flowers had taken root in the cracks. It looked old — older than the road that led to it — as if it had been standing there long before travelers like me found reasons to cross.
The last of the sunlight was spilling across the valley, soft and diffused, turning the water into glass. The sky was beginning to shift — the pale blue of afternoon giving way to the faint bruising of dusk. A flock of egrets rose suddenly from the reeds, their wings flashing white against the deepening colors.
I stopped at the beginning of the bridge. The stone felt cool beneath my hand. Lichen traced faint, ghostly patterns across its surface — maps that led nowhere, stories that had lost their words. A small stream trickled down one side, dripping into the river with rhythmic persistence.
I stepped onto the bridge slowly, feeling the echo of my footsteps spread outward. The sound was hollow, steady, comforting. Halfway across, I paused to look down. The river moved lazily, its surface breaking only where fish rose to catch insects. Every ripple distorted the bridge's reflection, blending stone and water until neither seemed entirely real.
The evening air thickened with scent — damp leaves, wild mint, the faint smoke of a faraway fire. A heron stood motionless at the far bank, watching the water with the patience of stone.
I leaned against the edge, watching the sky shift. Clouds drifted past like slow ships. The horizon burned faintly orange, fading to violet, then to the deep calm of indigo. The first stars blinked awake — shy, uncertain. Somewhere beyond the trees, a temple bell rang, its echo rolling gently through the valley.
The sound stirred something inside me — a quiet ache, the kind that doesn't belong to sadness but to distance. It reminded me of old evenings spent waiting for someone to return, of rooms that smelled of rain and kerosene lamps, of words left half-spoken.
The river caught the bell's echo and carried it downstream until it disappeared. I imagined it drifting through villages, past fields and forests, mingling with the songs of crickets and the hum of night.
A cart approached from the other side of the bridge. The driver was an old man, sitting straight despite the slow, swaying rhythm of the oxen. The wooden wheels creaked softly. When he reached me, he nodded — a simple acknowledgment between two travelers sharing the same fading light.
"Evening comes early here," he said, pulling gently at the reins. I smiled. "Seems to linger longer too." He chuckled, the lines on his face deepening. "That's because the river doesn't let go of the light so easily."
We stood there for a few moments, watching the reflection shimmer beneath us. Then he urged the oxen forward, and the cart rolled slowly across, its wheels leaving faint marks in the damp dust. The sound faded into the distance until only the whisper of the river remained.
The wind shifted slightly, carrying a hint of jasmine. Somewhere nearby, a frog croaked — one, then another, until the air was full of small, living voices. The bridge, in the growing twilight, looked softer now — almost like it belonged to the water rather than the earth.
I sat on the low parapet, my legs dangling over the edge. The stones were cool against my palms. The light dimmed further, melting into the soft grey of evening. Fireflies began to appear — first a few, then dozens, blinking in the grass like quiet sparks. Their reflections doubled in the river, turning the water into a shifting galaxy.
I thought of how bridges always seem to hold their breath — suspended between two places, between where you've been and where you're going. They don't belong fully to either side. Maybe that's why I liked them.
A memory rose uninvited — walking home long ago on a different bridge, under a different sky, the sound of rain hitting water, the warmth of a borrowed umbrella. I could almost hear the laughter that once echoed there, now faded into the hum of years.
The stars brightened. The moon appeared — a pale crescent caught in the branches of the far bank's trees. The river shimmered silver. I stayed until the world had turned fully blue, the kind of blue that makes everything — air, water, stone — blend together.
When I finally crossed to the other side, I turned once to look back. The bridge stood quietly, half in shadow, half in moonlight, its reflection trembling softly. The water below kept whispering, as if retelling everything that had ever crossed over it — footsteps, carts, silences, goodbyes.
I walked on, following the narrow path that climbed toward the hills. Behind me, the sound of the river grew faint, like the echo of a thought slowly fading from memory. The air smelled of night-blooming flowers. The road glimmered faintly in the moonlight — silver dust under my feet.
Somewhere beyond the next bend, a lone lantern flickered.And the bridge — that patient keeper of twilight — stayed behind, still holding the day's last light in its quiet, rippling hands.