A bridge stands alone in the mist, its arches stretching across a river that moves without sound. The stone beneath each step feels cold and worn, smoothed by countless footsteps long since forgotten. The railings, etched with lichen and time, glisten faintly with moisture from the low-hanging fog. Everything beyond the bridge is hidden—shapes dissolve into the gray, leaving only the path ahead, suspended in uncertainty.
The air is thick with the scent of wet stone and distant water, cool and sharp against the skin. The river below flows without ripples, dark and still, reflecting nothing but the shifting mist above. It feels less like water and more like shadow, a silent current that moves with purpose yet reveals no destination.
The bridge itself seems untouched by time, yet the weight of years clings to it like a forgotten memory. Cracks spiderweb across the surface, veins of age that tell a story no one remains to hear. The silence is absolute—no birds, no breeze, only the faint, rhythmic pulse of the unseen river below.
As the mist thickens, the far end of the bridge disappears entirely, swallowed by the gray expanse. The bridge no longer connects two places; it stretches into nothingness, a path without end. And standing there, in the center of that ancient stone crossing, the world feels suspended—between here and there, between known and unknown.
Time loses its grip. The mist presses closer. The bridge waits. And somewhere, deep beneath the surface of the still water, something stirs.
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