Bridge Talk

“Some things you build with rope and timber. Others, you build by standing still and not looking away.”

Standing at the corner of the tent, I allowed myself a moment—just a sliver of quiet amid the whirlwind of urgency that had consumed the last few hours. The tent behind me still hummed with residual tension, but out here, the stillness offered a brief reprieve. The coarse fabric of the tent brushed lightly against my arm in the dry breeze as I caught sight of Paul at the river’s edge.

He stood alone, his back to me, posture rigid. Arms folded tightly across his chest, he looked carved from the very stone beneath his boots—still, silent, and heavy with thoughts he wasn't ready to share. From a distance, he looked younger. Vulnerable, even. The weight of whatever he carried pressed his shoulders down and cast a long shadow.

"It's a good spot for a nice bridge," I ventured softly, the words feeling strange in my mouth—gentle, almost playful, in contrast to the solemnity that hung in the air. I stepped lightly across the dust, each footfall muted. The suggestion wasn’t just about timber and rope; it was an offering—a way to reach him, maybe even begin stitching together something tentative and human.

Paul flinched, caught unawares, his head jerking around with a start. His eyes, though, softened as he recognised me.

"It is," he replied after a beat, his voice low and thoughtful. Just two words, but they lingered with the suggestion of shared understanding—of mutual recognition that bridges, literal and emotional, were something we all sorely needed.

I stepped up beside him, close enough that I could see the river properly now. It meandered quietly through the barren landscape, a ribbon of clear water cutting through the powdery earth. No more than twenty metres wide, I guessed. In a different world, it might have been the sort of place where children tossed stones, or where couples picnicked beneath willows. Here, it felt ancient. Lonely.

"It's oddly beautiful, isn't it?" I said, the question more to myself than to him. The words came unbidden, carried on the breeze. There was a kind of rawness to Clivilius—a purity stripped of softness. This land did not apologise for its silence, or its severity. It was a landscape that demanded endurance, not admiration—and yet, I couldn’t help but admire it.

"It is," Paul echoed, and then, after a brief silence, added something that caught me off guard. "How are you so relaxed with all of this?"

His tone wasn’t accusatory—just curious. Searching, maybe. I glanced sideways at him. His face was open, but the question came from somewhere deep. He wasn’t just asking about the river, or the tents, or even Clivilius. He was asking about resilience. About how one keeps breathing when the air is thin with fear.

I mirrored his posture—arms folded, shoulders drawn in—and gave a slight shrug. The movement felt automatic, but behind it was a weight I couldn’t articulate. "I’m a doctor," I said simply. "It’s my job to be calm."

It wasn’t the whole truth, of course. Calm was something I had learned to project. Inside, there were always storm systems. Doubt, fatigue, grief—my father’s absence like a splinter I hadn’t yet found the courage to remove. But calm was what people needed. Calm saved lives.

"Fair call," Paul said, and offered a half-smile—real, if brief. It was enough. He didn’t push further.

I turned back toward the river, my eyes skimming its surface as if searching for an answer, or a sign. The realisation came like a quiet whisper in my bones.

Father could be anywhere.

The thought sank deep, spreading like ink. This world, with all its mystery and silence, had swallowed him. If he was still alive, he was out there in that vastness—across those dry hills, beyond that river. The prospect of finding him felt suddenly both impossibly distant and terrifyingly urgent.

"We will build a bridge," I found myself declaring, the words slipping out with a conviction that surprised even me. They hung in the air between us, bold and unshaken, and for a moment, I felt the echo of my father's voice in my own—his unwavering belief that anything was possible if approached with clarity and courage.

The phrase carried more weight than just the prospect of timber and rope stretched across a river. It was a declaration of intent, of purpose. It was about connection—not just between two pieces of land, but between people. Between past and future. Between what we had lost and what we still hoped to find. Somewhere within me, perhaps irrationally, I believed that building that bridge might lead me to my father.

"We can't," Paul said, his voice quiet but firm, and the way he shook his head snapped me out of my reverie. His feet shifted slightly in the dust, grounding him in practicality, in the very real limitations of our situation.

"Can't?" I echoed, my tone tinged with disbelief. The word felt like a stone dropped into the stillness of my conviction. "Of course, we can."

It wasn’t just blind optimism—it was something deeper. A refusal to accept that helplessness was our default setting. A resistance to the idea that Clivilius would remain fractured and inaccessible forever. I had come too far, seen too much, to give in to the first sign of logistical resistance.

"We don’t have any materials," Paul said, and it was true. He wasn’t being defeatist, just pragmatic. Still, the statement pulled at the fragile threads of my resolve. The river looked wider now than it had moments before.

"Luke will get them for us," I replied without hesitation, my voice steadier than I felt. I clung to the idea, not out of naïveté, but out of necessity. I had to believe that Luke was more than just capable—that he was equipped with the means to make impossible things happen. If he truly was a Guardian, like my father had once been, then surely this was what he was meant for. To bring hope. To bring tools. To bring help.

I bumped my elbow lightly against Paul’s crossed arms, trying to puncture the growing cloud of pessimism between us with a flicker of levity. "And I thought you were the optimistic one," I teased, giving him a sidelong glance. My smile was small, but sincere. We needed to remind each other that optimism was still allowed.

Paul's eyes narrowed as he looked at me, not in annoyance, but in quiet consideration. I could almost hear the cogs turning, the mental weighing of facts against faith.

"I am," he said finally, and though the words were simple, the way he said them mattered. Not defensive. Not sarcastic. Just… honest.

It was enough.

We stood there together in the dry wind, side by side, not yet with a plan, but with the beginnings of something even more important: belief. The kind that didn’t need blueprints or resources—just a shared willingness to try. Around us, the landscape of Clivilius remained unchanged—vast, sun-bleached, and unmoved—but something within that moment had quietly shifted. We were no longer just surviving. We were beginning to imagine what could be built.

Then, cutting across the stillness like a thread stitching us back to the present, came Luke’s voice—urgent, wind-carried, and unmistakably filled with relief. "Glenda! Paul!"

The sound of my name, shouted across that open, breathless expanse, lit something inside me. Not panic. Not dread. But hope. A reminder that we were not alone in this. That help, when called for, might actually come. That someone would answer.

My heart lifted, and instinctively I turned toward the sound, toward the centre of our fragile, rapidly forming world.

His return marked more than just the arrival of medical supplies—it was a reassertion of strength, of connection. Proof that, even in this strange, broken land, we could rely on each other. That no one was expected to carry the burden alone.

I couldn't help but smile, the expression catching me off guard with its sincerity. "Come," I urged Paul, my voice light but charged with urgency, the moment of stillness now giving way to motion. My steps quickened, boots brushing through the dust, drawn toward the tent and whatever awaited us inside—answers, healing, or perhaps the next challenge.

Either way, we would face it together.