It stood tall and majestic, cutting through the morning mist like a forgotten promise. The villagers called it the bridge to nowhere, a half-finished marvel that ended mid-air, suspended over a valley of silence.
Years ago, they said, it was meant to connect two bustling towns, to bring trade, laughter, and life. But the funding stopped, the builders vanished, and only the skeleton of ambition remained. Nature slowly reclaimed its territory; vines climbed its concrete ribs, birds nested in its crevices, and wind whispered stories of what could have been.
To most, it was a failed project. But to me, it was a metaphor, a monument of human hope, of plans interrupted, and dreams deferred. Sometimes we build bridges in life too, with people, with passions, with places, only to find they lead us nowhere.
Still, we build. Because even a bridge to nowhere gives us a view we’ve never seen before.