The river never forgot. It kept their secrets, their bargains, their almost-farewells, whispering beneath the iron bridge where he first found the blanket, the chain, the duck, and a choice that wouldn’t let him go. One stranger turned into three, then dozens. They came with shaking hands, unread letters, pill bottles, unpaid bills, and impossible news. He brought only presence. No sermons. No promises. Just coffee in paper cups cooling between them, headlights off, hazard lights blinking like a heartbeat.

He watched seasons change by the weight of footsteps on steel grating, learned the names of storms inside other people’s chests. Sometimes they walked back to their cars. Sometimes they went straight to the hospital. Once, they just sat until sunrise, saying nothing. He never called himself a savior; he knew better. He was simply the proof that someone would always show up. In that small town, the bridge stopped being an ending and became a place where stories, trembling and unfinished, chose to turn the page instead.