They never had. The bridge had remained a skeleton of steel, and the friendship had drifted into a quiet history.
He didn't wait for a grand opening line. He didn't wait for the coffee to cool. He simply began. sometime
Every Saturday morning, Arthur would climb the creaking stairs with a mug of black coffee, intending to finally bridge the gap between "someday" and "today." He’d sit, fingers hovering over the home row, watching the dust motes dance in the light from the small dormer window. They never had
One afternoon, a sharp gust of wind caught the attic window, rattling it in its frame and knocking a small, faded photograph from the wall. It was Arthur at twenty-four, grinning at a camera held by someone whose name he had almost forgotten, standing in front of a half-finished bridge. He didn't wait for the coffee to cool
He picked up the photo. On the back, in a scribbled hand, was a note: "We'll finish it sometime."
He reached out and blew the dust off the carriage. It puffed into the air, a miniature storm of forgotten Saturdays. He rolled in a fresh sheet of paper—crisp, white, and terrifyingly blank.