I step off the train at an unfamiliar station. The hall is vast, yet empty. A clock ticks above my head, its hands moving, though time itself seems to stand still.
I follow the scent of coffee to a small café at the edge of the square. I sit at a table. One chair leans askew, as if someone left in haste.
I rub the sleep from my eyes while sipping black coffee. Around me, the travelers who once sat here have left their stories carved into the scratches of the wood.
Outside the station, a bridge draws my attention. A simple construction of steel and stone, yet for me a symbol of passage.
Every bridge is a promise that something awaits on the other side, even if you do not know what. I stand in the middle, listening to the water rushing below. The river carries stories I will never know: voices from villages upstream, secrets from forests and mountains.
The bridge creaks softly beneath my feet, reminding me that crossing is always a choice. Here, between two shores, I feel the tension of departure and arrival, of letting go and expecting.
Spring lingers in the air. A gentle wind lifts my coat, as if urging me onward. But I remain. For the journey is not movement itself but the waiting for meaning that reveals itself only when haste is gone.
Perhaps the road is not to be found but to be wandered.