There are bridges that don't collapse because time weakens them. Some go up in flames deliberately, with a match struck in a careless hand. I stood on the other bank, watched the sparks dance, smelled the burnt wood.

And when the smoke cleared, they called my name. They asked why I didn't come back. Why my footsteps were far away, my voice silent.

But how can one return when between here and there lies only ash, burning one's throat with every breath?