The problem wasn’t that the bridge at the end of our street led to a different place each time you crossed it, but that once out of every hundred times or so, it wouldn’t take you back. Sometimes someone would show up in the next town over, but there were also those we never saw again.
Father used to make me cross it as a punishment, to remind me of what I stood to lose by disobeying him. I always knew he was hoping I wouldn’t come back. But I did not know that it would be so lovely here.
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