At the crossing
At the bridge, the lamplighter stopped to listen. Water carried the evening under the stones; somewhere beyond the bend, a bell sounded once and fell quiet. The lantern had not yet been lit.
On the opposite bank, a window opened. A hand set a small glass on the sill, catching the last of the sky. Only then did the lamplighter turn the wick. One light answered another, and the crossing became a path again.
The passage stays still when you open a note.
