The Bridge of Held Breath

From above, the world is a tapestry of quiet tension—a river, dark as polished slate, threads through the forest’s embrace, its surface so still it holds the stormclouds like a mirror. Trees press close on either bank, their branches nearly touching, as if sharing secrets across the water.

The bridge is the only interruption—a pale concrete curve, precise and solitary, stitching the two halves of the road together. No cars cross. No birds call. Even the wind hesitates here, leaving the air thick with the scent of pine and pending rain.

It’s the kind of calm that hums—a pause before decision, before the sky finally breaks. The kind of place where you might stop, though no one’s asked you to, and feel the weight of something unseen watching back.