Gemotions

I stood on the bridge, the same bridge where old man Miller used to bring me when I was struggling, staring at the churning river below. The silence of the mountain was broken by the gush of the water. He was my rock, my guide. The note on the bulletin board was brief: "Departed for the mountains. Thank you." That was it.

My throat tightened. He was gone, evaporated into the wild. I imagined him, up there, finding his peace. But that didn't help me. The bridge's cold stone felt like a physical burden.