He reached the old footbridge just as the last of the daylight slipped behind the ridge, leaving the river below a shifting ribbon of dark metal. The boards creaked under his weight, the same way they had years ago, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood here. Maybe he’d never really left. Maybe part of him had been waiting on this bridge all along.

The letter in his coat pocket felt heavier with every step. He hadn’t opened it—not when it arrived, not during the long drive back, not even now, with the night pressing close around him. The envelope was worn at the edges, as if it had traveled farther than he had, as if it had been carried by more than just the postal service. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but something about it tugged at a memory he couldn’t quite place.

Across the river, a single light flicked on in the house that had once belonged to a family he used to know. The place had been empty for years, or so he’d heard. Yet there it was: a warm square of yellow in the window, steady and deliberate. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out a shape behind the glass. For a moment he thought he saw someone standing there—still, watching. But the distance, the dusk, and the shifting branches made it impossible to be sure.

A gust of wind swept across the bridge, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and something else—something he hadn’t smelled in a long time. It made him think of late nights and whispered conversations, of promises made without understanding their weight. He tightened his grip on the railing, feeling the rough grain beneath his fingers.

He took the letter out and turned it over in his hands. No return address. Just his name, written with a strange mixture of urgency and care. He wondered again who had sent it, and why it had arrived now, after all this time. The river murmured below, as if urging him to read it, or warning him not to.

The light in the house flickered. A shadow moved behind the curtain—or maybe it was only the wind. He couldn’t tell. He felt the familiar pull of the past, the way it could reach out from years ago and wrap itself around the present without asking permission.

He slipped a thumb under the flap of the envelope, hesitated, then lowered his hand. Not yet. The night wasn’t finished revealing itself. He could feel that much.

Somewhere in the darkness, a branch snapped. Not loudly, but with intention. He turned toward the sound, heart ticking faster, but saw nothing except the shifting silhouettes of trees. The air felt charged, as if the world were holding its breath.

He stood there on the bridge, the unopened letter in his hand, the light across the river burning steadily, the shadows gathering at the edges of the path behind him. He wasn’t sure whether to cross, to open the letter, or to turn back the way he came.

The river kept flowing. The night deepened. And he remained where he was, suspended between what he remembered and what waited for him on the other side.

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