The Memory of Rust

The bridge has forgotten its name, leaving only its iron bones to the river. A slow, orange bloom of decay spreads across the rivets, softening the edge of the morning.

The water speaks in a low rumble, carrying the silver ghosts of the tide. Below the surface, the foundations brace for a weight that has long since passed, unaware of the silence above.

Here, the wind tastes of salt and old oil. The day peels back its blue skin to reveal the structural truth of the world: even the sturdiest things are eventually reclaimed by the light.