The River Bridge

The early winter river wind carried shards of ice, stinging my face painfully. I tightened my scarf again, but it couldn't block the piercing cold—the kind of chill buried beneath the ruins after the mudslide eight years ago. The hand clutching the railing was numb from the cold, the fingertips nearly frozen to the icy metal. I gazed down at the murky river below, the waves rolling and crashing against the bridge pillars, as if trying to swallow everything whole. Calvin Scott once told me that many had drowned in this river, warning me not to come too close. Now, thinking back, a place like this seems fitting for me. I began to count—one, two, three... By the time I reached ten, the wind had blown my hair across my face, blurring my sight. When I reached twenty, I recalled the warmth when my mother pressed a ceramic rabbit into my hand—that has been my only comfort these years. When I counted to thirty, the image of Calvin Scott forcing me out the door surfaced again. He threw the suitcase into the rain, the zipper burst open, and the sweater my mother had knitted fell into the muddy water. He didn't even glance at it. When I counted to forty, I sniffled; the cold wind rushed down my throat, choking me into coughing twice. When I counted to fifty, footsteps came from behind—soft, yet strikingly clear on the empty River Bridge. The footsteps stopped beside me, then fell silent. I could feel the breath of the person beside me—faint, unlike the ever-present smell of smoke on Calvin Scott. I glanced sideways; the man wore a black down jacket, his hat pulled low, his exposed face pale as snow. He was also staring at the river, his eyes vacant, as if, like me, he were waiting for something. The river wind blew again, causing his long eyelashes to tremble, casting a small shadow beneath his eyes. "Will you jump?" I spoke first, my voice drifting—probably from standing too long, frozen and drained of strength. "If you don't jump, then I will." I added, my hand already loosening from the railing; one more step forward, and I could dissolve into that murky water. He turned his head to look at me, his eyes bright, as if shrouded in a veil of mist. "Why do you want to die?" His voice was softer than the river breeze, yet carried a faint, barely perceptible tremor. "Brother doesn't want me anymore." I could only squeeze out five words; even one more felt exhausting. The grievances of all these years seemed to choke my throat, impossible to voice. As the five words fell, he suddenly panicked, reaching out to touch me, then pulling back. "No, I’ll be your brother and I still want you. Let's go home." His voice was urgent, his eyes filled with emotions I couldn't comprehend. In that moment, I remembered Calvin Scott from my childhood. Back then, my parents were still alive. Calvin would hold my hand to buy candy, lift me above his head, and say, "You are my best sister." Tears fell onto the railing, cold and quickly vanishing without a trace. Later, I found out his name was Carmen Gabriel. That day, he had mistaken me for his deceased sister. His sister had jumped into this river three years ago, standing roughly where I stand now. The next day at noon, my phone suddenly rang, the screen flashing the name "Calvin Scott." I hesitated for a moment, but still answered. The mockery on the other end of the phone was like an ice pick, stabbing into my heart again and again: "Weren't you going to die? Why are you still alive?" I touched the hand warmer Carmen Gabriel had given me in my pocket; it still held warmth—the first warmth I had felt in eight years. I smiled, and finally there was a trace of life in my voice: "I found my brother." Before he could say anything more, I hung up the phone. The day Calvin Scott kicked me out of the house, it was drizzling—not heavy, but persistent, soaking through to the heart. When he threw my suitcase out, he used such force that the zipper snapped open with a sharp pop. Clothes were scattered all over the ground—shirts I had saved up for a long time to buy, and the scarf my mother had left behind. I wanted to pick them up, but he stomped on the sweater, the muddy sole leaving a glaring stain on the light gray knit. "Stop. Do you even deserve it?" His voice was as cold as rain. He has hated me for eight years.