the car comes slow. headlights like tired eyes, half-shut, flickering between sleep and obligation. the bridge is long enough to measure a lifetime but short enough to regret every step taken onto it. the man stands where the road stops making sense, where the metal bones of the bridge hum under the weight of things that never arrived.

he lights a cigarette. he doesn’t smoke. but there’s something about holding fire between your fingers that makes you feel less alone.

the driver doesn’t know why he’s here, only that the road told him to be. the wheels moved, the bridge appeared, the man was waiting. or maybe he was left behind.

it started snowing five minutes ago.

it never snows anymore.

the man exhales smoke. the driver exhales silence.

the car rolls closer, like an animal unsure if it should attack or run. the man doesn’t move. he’s been waiting for this.

not for the car. not for the driver. but for the moment when something, anything, finally reaches him.

the bridge groans.

the snow keeps falling.

the car keeps coming.

the man doesn’t step aside.