When I turned around, the bridge was empty.

The Last Day of Summer

It was the last Sunday in August—the kind of day that feels like it’s clutching at summer with both hands. The trees were still green, the air was warm, and the river flowed smooth and quiet beneath the old wooden bridge.

I was 13. My little brother, Sami, had just turned 9. We spent the afternoon biking through the woods behind our house, a route we’d taken a hundred times before. We knew every tree, every bend in the trail, every dip that made our stomachs churn.

The old bridge was our outpost, our imaginary border between childhood freedom and the edge of something else. It creaked under our bikes, groaned as we walked, and sometimes we swore we could hear whispers in the wood. But we always laughed it off. Just old boards and the wind.

That day Sami stopped in the middle of the bridge.

He leaned over the railing, staring into the water below, as if something was calling to him. I dropped my bike and walked toward him.

Did you hear that?

Sami turned slowly to me.

"Did you hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?"

"A voice. It said my name."

I frowned. "You're messing with me."

But he wasn't smiling. His eyes were wide, focused on something I couldn't see.

Then, he pointed. "It's over there."

I looked at the bridge. Nothing. Just brown water and tangled reeds on the edge of the bank. I turned and looked at him.

And he was gone.

The empty bridge

There was no rustling. No shouting. No sound at all.

Just silence...

"Sami?" I called out, stepping forward. "Leave it. This isn't funny."

I ran to the other side of the bridge. Nothing. I checked under it, the woods, the water, both ends of the path.

The bridge was empty.

Completely empty.

And Sami never came home.

Look for parties, rumors, and ghost stories.

The whole town came together that night. Flashlights combed the woods. Drones flew over the river. Divers swept every inch of the bridge below.

Nothing.

Not a single sign.

People started talking.

Stories came flooding out - how a boy drowned there twenty years ago, how a girl disappeared on this very bridge in the '60s, how this town became cursed.

They started calling it "The Vanishing Bridge."

Some people said the bridge had “thin spots” where the world collapsed and you could slip through. Others swore they heard whispers if they stood there long enough.

But the most common story was… mine.

About the boy who looked back — and saw nothing more.

I never left, not really.

I still live in this town.

Others moved on. They grew up, went to college, started families. I stayed. I couldn’t leave. How could I leave when Sami was still out there?

Every year on the last Sunday in August, I go back to the bridge. I bring his old flashlight, which he carries everywhere. I sit. I listen.

Sometimes, I think I hear footsteps behind me. I wander. The bridge is always empty.

But last year, I found something new.

The flashlight was on.

I held his flashlight gently to the railing, as usual. It hadn’t worked in years. But when I turned back a few minutes later…

It was on. Faint, flickering. But on.

I told no one. Who would believe me? But it gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope

What the town believes now.

The town still talks about the bridge. Young people dare each other to walk alone at night. Some claim to breathe behind them. Some say they saw a boy standing far away who disappears in the blink of an eye.

I’ve read every theory—time loops, parallel worlds, ghosts, hallucinations. I’ve watched documentaries, listened to podcasts, met psychics. Nothing connects.

But I know what I saw.

And what I didn’t see.

He was just a kid.

Sami wasn't special in the way horror stories paint their victims. He wasn't cursed. He didn't mess with dark magic. He was just a kid.

And I was just a brother.

Who looked away for a second.