There’s a bridge not far from my old neighborhood.
Most people passed it daily, ignoring the whispering sounds at night.
One evening, a boy walking home heard someone crying beneath it.
He paused, afraid, then took a step closer.
What he saw shocked him — a thin man, writing notes in the sand.
The man looked up and said, “I write stories people forget to tell.”
The boy gave him a biscuit from his bag, and the man smiled.
The next day, the boy came again, but the man was gone.
In his place was a stone that read: “He who listens, finds truth.”
Nobody believed the boy, but every time I pass that bridge...
I wonder if he’ll ever return.
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110 days agoThere’s a bridge not far from my old neighborhood.
Most people passed it daily, ignoring the whispering sounds at night.
One evening, a boy walking home heard someone crying beneath it.
He paused, afraid, then took a step closer.
What he saw shocked him — a thin man, writing notes in the sand.
The man looked up and said, “I write stories people forget to tell.”
The boy gave him a biscuit from his bag, and the man smiled.
The next day, the boy came again, but the man was gone.
In his place was a stone that read: “He who listens, finds truth.”
Nobody believed the boy, but every time I pass that bridge...
I wonder if he’ll ever return.