“The Bridge That Had No End”

The Bridge That Had No End

By [Ali Rehman]

The first time I saw the bridge, I thought it was a trick of the morning fog—a wooden path stretching into a white, hushed nothingness. There were no signs, no footmarks, no sounds but the soft groan of the planks beneath the wind. I had wandered far that day, farther than I meant to, driven by a restlessness I couldn’t name.

The bridge looked ancient, the kind that belonged to forgotten villages or stories told around dying campfires. But something in it called to me—softly, insistently, like a whisper I had heard before but couldn't place.

I stepped onto the first plank.

It creaked, almost as if acknowledging my presence.

The fog thickened behind me, swallowing the shore from which I had come. Ahead, the path stretched forward endlessly. I took another step, then another, until turning back no longer felt like an option.

The air felt different on the bridge—quieter, as though sound itself had been asked to hush. And then, with a sudden shiver, the world shifted.

The fog parted.

And I saw my childhood home.

Not the real one—the memory of it.

Perfect. Untouched. Frozen in the warm glow of dusk.

The bridge beneath me dissolved into a dirt path, and for a moment I stood in my old backyard, the rusted swing set swaying gently in the breeze. A small boy ran past me, laughing so freely I felt it echo in my ribs.

It was me.

He didn’t see me.

He couldn’t.

He was a memory, and I was only passing through.

He laughed again and chased after someone else—another figure I had tried hard not to think about.

My brother.

His hair was golden in the setting sun, his smile wide and unburdened. The sight of him hurt, even after all these years. I had buried this memory, tucked it deep beneath layers of adulthood and denial. Yet here it was, alive, vivid, unescapable.

I walked forward, and the image wavered—like a painting submerged in water.

With a blink, the backyard melted away.

The wooden planks returned beneath my feet.

I was still on the bridge.

But now I understood.

This was not a place.

It was a crossing—into the places I had left behind.

I walked on.

The fog shifted again, clearing to reveal the school hallway from my teenage years. Lockers lined the walls like silent sentinels. The air smelled of chalk and restless ambition. I saw myself again—not the carefree child this time, but the boy who always walked too fast, too determined, too afraid to fall behind.

He was arguing with someone.

Her.

The girl with the quiet eyes.

The one I had never apologized to.

Her name tasted like regret.

I watched the scene unfold. Watched the moment I had chosen anger over honesty, fear over courage. Watched how her expression shifted—hurt blooming in her eyes like something fragile breaking.

I had carried guilt about that day for years, yet still pretended I’d forgotten it.

The memory dissolved.

The bridge returned.

I walked on.

The planks grew darker, older, as if aging beneath my steps. The fog hummed low, vibrating with memories waiting to be seen. But I hesitated now. I knew what was coming. The memory I had run from the longest.

My brother.

The accident.

The night everything changed.

The fog parted once more, colder this time, sharp as glass.

I stood on the riverbank from that night. Water rushed violently below. Moonlight shimmered across the surface like shattered bone. My brother stood there—older now, or maybe I only thought of him that way because time had tried its best to blur his face.

He shouted my name.

I shouted his.

And then—

The moment.

The slip.

The fall.

The scream that never left me.

I reached for him—reflexively, instinctively—even though I knew I couldn’t touch the past. My hand passed through the memory like smoke.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the cold.

The river did not answer.

When the scene faded, I was left breathless, knees weak.

The bridge did not end.

Not yet.

But something inside me had shifted.

For years, I had walked through life pretending I had outrun these memories—my brother, my mistakes, the paths I wished I had taken. Yet here, on this endless crossing, they found me. They asked to be seen. To be acknowledged.

I walked again, slower this time, accepting each step for what it was.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the bridge began to change.

The planks grew lighter.

The fog thinned.

The horizon brightened.

Then, at last, I saw it.

The end.

Not a destination, just a simple wooden arch standing in sunlight. I stepped through, and the endless bridge behind me faded into a quiet, calm forest path.

The weight in my chest felt… lighter.

Maybe the bridge had never been endless.

Maybe I just wasn’t ready to reach the end until now.

Moral

Sometimes the path feels endless not because it has no end,

but because we are carrying memories we refuse to face.

Once we finally meet them,

the road becomes clear again.