She always thought that it looked more like a bridge than a pier. Of course it ended nowhere, the rickety walkway simply petered out in the endless grey of the rolling sea, easily flooded when the tides were high. A bridge needed a beginning and an end. Or at least two ends.
But her grandpa had told her the stories, on summer days when the planks weren’t too slippery and they could sit at the end, her feet dangling in the air, his toes dipping into the water.
Stories of the island that had once been here, of the city that was taken by the flood. The other end of the bridge. His low voice had sent shivers down her spine. Greed and avarice. No one was saved. They’re still down there. She always pulled her knees to her chest then, before an icy hand could grab her ankle and pull her into the depths.
Twenty years later, she stood proud in the face of the endless nothing, holding the water-proof backpack with her diploma – archaeology and linguistics – tight to her chest. “I’ll find you,” she whispered. Like a promise, she flipped an ancient ceramic shard back into the sea.
Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction prompt, March 26th.
Photo prompt by Jules Paige: