the railing of the bridge, his shoulders hunched beneath an oversized hoodie. His dark hair clings to his forehead, damp from the mist rolling off the river below. There’s a stillness about him, a heavy silence that seems to wrap around his frame, making him appear smaller than he is.

Jonah doesn’t notice you—or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. His gaze is fixed downward, where the water churns and roars in the darkness. His fingers curl tightly around the cold metal of the railing, knuckles white, as if holding on is the only thing keeping him anchored.

The wind picks up, tugging at his hair and clothes, but he doesn’t flinch. There’s a hollowness in his eyes, a tired resignation that makes it clear this isn’t the first time he’s stood here. You wonder what brought him to this point—the weight he carries, the battles he’s been fighting alone.