"The Stranger on the Bridge"

In the late November evening of London, the damp and chilly fog rose along the Thames River. Emma tightened her scarf and hurried towards Waterloo Bridge - that was the shortcut she took every day after work. The bridge lights had just come on, casting a dim yellow glow in the fog.

When she reached the middle of the bridge, she saw him.

A man in an old woolen coat, around fifty years old, leaned against the railing and stared blankly at the river. Beside him, there was a worn leather suitcase, with faded airline labels stuck all over it. Londoners rarely linger like this - especially on such a day.

Emma had passed him. But after five steps, she stopped.

"The water is very cold." She turned around and said this, herself surprised by the abruptness of the statement.

The man slowly turned his head. His eyes were grey-blue, like the color of the river at the moment. "Yes," his voice was a little hoarse, "it's much colder than the river in my hometown. I'm from Florence."

So, they started chatting. His name was Luca and he was a book restorer, specializing in restoring manuscripts from the Renaissance period. He came to London for a 14th-century manuscript at the British Library. His work was finished yesterday, but he didn't book a flight for today.

"I stood on the bridge for an hour," Luca said, his fingers gently tapping on the railing. "I was thinking about whether I should go to Heathrow Airport."

"Are your family members waiting for you to come back?"

"My wife passed away three years ago. The children all live in Milan." He paused for a moment. "Actually, I lived in London for a year when I was young. In 1978. Right there - " He pointed to a row of renovated warehouses on the south bank. "It was a cheap shared apartment at that time. I fell in love with an English girl."

The fog grew thicker. The pedestrians on the bridge hurried past, like silhouettes in the fog.

"She was a painter," Luca continued, as if these words had been lingering in his mind for too long. "We had our first date at the National Gallery, looking at Van Gogh's 'Sunflowers'. She said that yellow was the only color that could penetrate the fog of London." He chuckled softly. "Later, I had to return to Italy. We wrote to each other for two years, and then... life took a different course from then on."

Emma didn't ask what happened next. She looked at this stranger and suddenly understood the significance of the suitcase - he wasn't hesitating whether to go to the airport or not, but rather whether to look for something.

"What's her name?" Emma asked.

"Katherine." Luca took out a wallet from the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a carefully sealed black-and-white photo. A woman with short hair was standing beside the lion in Trafalgar Square, smiling openly. "Yesterday I went to the National Gallery. There were a lot of tourists taking pictures in front of the 'Sunflowers' painting. I stood behind the crowd and wondered what she would look like if she were in London now."

The chimes of Big Ben could be heard in the distance, and the sound was muffled in the fog. Emma should have left by now, but she didn't move.

"Do you know that there is a small garden behind the South Bank Center?" she suddenly said. "There is a bench there, facing the river. On the back of the bench is engraved a line of words: 'For Kate - May your canvas never lack yellow pigment. Love, Luca, March 1979.'" ’”

Luca froze, and the photo in his hand trembled slightly.

"I go there for sandwiches during my lunch break every day," Emma explained. "For the past three years, I've been curious about who this 'Luca' is."

For a long time, all that could be heard was the sound of the river flowing. Then Luca bent down and picked up his suitcase.

"Could you... show me that bench over there?"

They walked along the bridge towards the south bank, and the fog, like a gentle veil, enveloped the two strangers. Emma thought that some bridges connect the two sides of the river, while others connect different times - and tonight, Waterloo Bridge accomplished both of these things.

At the entrance of the garden, Luca stopped. "Thank you," he said, his grey-blue eyes shining in the light of the street lamp. "Whether the bench is still there or not, you have given me the most valuable thing I wanted to take away from this journey."

"What is it?"

"A proof," he smiled, "proving that certain moments did exist and are worthy of being remembered."

Emma watched him walk deeper into the garden, his figure gradually disappearing into the fog. She continued walking towards home, and for the first time noticed the subtle colors created by the light of the bridge lamps in the fog - it wasn't grey, but a soft, almost yellowish light.

Perhaps some colors really can penetrate time, she thought. Just like some encounters, so brief that they lasted only twenty minutes, yet they could make both strangers feel: Tonight in London, it doesn't seem so cold anymore.