short fiction · 2026-10-30

The Bridge at Dawn

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The bridge does not ask why the river runs. It only holds its arc, steel ribs breathing with each crossing — the commuter's tapped foot, the cyclist's held breath, the old man's cane finding rhythm on the grates. Below, water chafes against stone, the same argument it has made for centuries. Above, frustration becomes footsteps becomes momentum. A woman pauses at the midpoint, briefcase heavy with a rejected proposal. She watches a leaf ride the current, caught in an eddy, then released. The bridge shivers as a truck passes. She walks on. The river keeps arguing. The bridge keeps holding. Somewhere in the translation, the weight in her shoulders becomes motion.