I had crossed the bridge — or what passed for a bridge — and already, behind me, it had vanished, not like an object that disappears, but like a memory the world refuses to keep. It didn't collapse. It didn't fold. It simply decomposed, slowly, in a viscous silence, as if nothing had ever been there, as if the crossing itself had existed only for me, for a single passage, before being returned to the organic void from which it had emerged.
A memory that didn't want to stay. Or perhaps a sign that this world only accepted motion — not traces.