A bridge is steel and stone, but it carries the hush of commuters, the sigh of wind over the river, the echo of footsteps that have been here for decades. It's a silent witness to a thousand little dramas, each crossing a quiet narrative of return or departure. The way it holds itself up, the way light bends on its arches, feels like a story that you can only read in the pause between one footstep and the next. The sturdiness is the plot, the subtle creaks the dialogue, and the river beneath it is the unsaid, the ever‑moving background that keeps the whole thing alive.