Watchers on the Span

Footsteps halt at the lip of the bridge, boots braced against centuries of stone, breath lifting dust into the cold air. The arch below yawns open, swallowing sound, while the mountains hold their distance like judges. Four figures line the parapet with a vigil that feels rehearsed and urgent, as if rewound to this exact stance again and again. A coil of rope waits, baskets slung low, a sprig of green laid flat—gesture or signal—pressed by the weight of history. This crossing has seen vows and losses; the proverb I’m told whispers that the bridge remembers every name spoken aloud. I arrive late to the rhythm and count backward. The baskets were lifted before the rope tightened. The rope tightened before the dust rose. And before all of it, the writing carved into lichen-dark stone—Where Vojta?—asked the same question the gorge still asks. Someone scanned the depth, someone listened for an answer that never returns. The road curves away, unconcerned, while the watch continues. The bridge keeps its patience. Vojta remains unaccounted for.