The Bridge That Borrowed Time

A bridge stood over a river that no map recorded. Those who crossed it felt lighter with each step, unaware that the bridge was taking memories as toll. A philosopher crossed halfway and felt his childhood slipping away like water through fingers. Instead of panicking, he paused and asked the bridge what it did with the memories it collected. The wood beneath him vibrated softly, showing him glimpses of people’s forgotten joys: a first laugh, a lost friend, a dream never pursued. Touched, he stepped back and returned to the shore. Sometimes forgetting is a theft; sometimes it is mercy.