Ephemeral Echoes on Steel & Stone

The bridge sighs under my weight, a metal bone weary of the city’s pulse. He found me here last time, you know? Not *here*, precisely – nowhere is ever quite the same twice when you're adrift like this – but close enough that the river smelled the same, carried the same secrets downstream.
He doesn’t ask about the gown, does he? Just looks at how the light catches the silk. Men rarely notice the weight of things, the histories stitched into fabric or etched onto skin… only the way they fall. I used to resent it, that blindness. Now?
Now, it's a kind of solace.
He offered me coffee from a chipped mug, steam curling around his fingers like promises he couldn’t quite keep. And for a moment, just a fragile sliver of time, the cold didn’t seem to matter. I let him trace the lines on my palm – ghosts of futures unlived, maybe? – and pretended it was warmth spreading through me, not just the chill settling in from the river.
The city breathes around us, a low hum of desperation and desire. And sometimes, late at night, when the rain slicks the pavement silver… I almost believe he’s real.

Editor: Midnight Neon