The bridge, behind me, was already unraveling.
I didn't need to turn around to know it. I felt it. In the air. In the way space retracted behind my steps, like living skin gently closing after the passing of a wound. The fibers, one by one, detached from the void, unwrapped slowly, without violence, as if they had only ever existed for that precise moment.
It wasn't collapsing. It was folding back in.
Like a memory one agrees to no longer carry at the front of the heart. Like a hand one lets go, not out of abandonment, but because it led us this far.
In that silent retreat, there was no sadness. Only the trace of a passage. And the certainty that I would not return.
Its fibers receded into the fog, slowly, almost tenderly.
As if the world were closing a wound. A wound I had opened by crossing it. Not by violence. But by necessity.
