The Bridge of Silent Bells

“You said no one would be here.”

“We’re early,” Noah said. “That’s kind of the point.”

The fog hung low over the Vltava, thick enough to swallow sound. Even their footsteps disappeared into it. Mira shoved her hands into her coat pockets, her breath a pale cloud in front of her.

She wasn’t sure what she was doing up here.

A week in Prague and this was how he wanted to spend their last morning — chasing fog.

“You owe me coffee,” she said.

“Two,” he said. “If you like this.”

The streetlights were still on, their yellow halos caught in the mist. Somewhere down the hill, a tram squealed against the rails. Then silence again.

When they stepped onto the Charles Bridge, Mira stopped walking. “This is ridiculous. It’s empty.”

“That’s why it’s perfect.”

He grinned at her, the kind of grin that made her want to roll her eyes and hold him at the same time.

She turned away, pretending to look at the river. The statues loomed out of the fog like ghosts. Everything smelled old — wet stone, iron, river air.

Then the bells started. Soft, uneven, like someone ringing them from another century.

Noah reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. Brass glinted in his hand.

“A lock?” she asked.

He nodded. “Write something on it.”

“With what?”

He handed her a cheap black pen, the kind hotel receptions leave at the counter. She almost laughed.

M + N. That was all she wrote. Small, quick, like it wasn’t supposed to mean much.

He hooked the lock onto the railing, right above the river. The sound it made — that tiny metallic click — was swallowed by the fog.

“Where’s the key?” she said.

“Gone.”

He flicked his wrist, and the key fell into the water below. A small plunk, then ripples, then nothing.

For a moment neither of them spoke. The city was waking somewhere far behind them — she could feel it, faint vibrations under her shoes. But here on the bridge, it was still just the two of them, caught between the bells and the river.

Mira leaned on the railing. “So… this was the plan?”

Noah shrugged. “I didn’t want a photo. I wanted this.”

She looked at him, trying to think of something to say, but the words didn’t come. So she just nodded, slow, like she understood. Maybe she did.

The fog began to thin, and light slipped through in soft slices, touching the stone and their faces. The bells stopped. The world felt fragile again.

By the time the first tourists arrived — loud voices, cameras, coats the color of candy — the bridge already looked different. Their lock was lost somewhere among the others. She couldn’t find it even if she tried.

Maybe that was okay.

***