I raise my head. My folded hands fall open on my lap, trembling.
Across the stream, I see him - my brother - smiling. A smile so familiar it pierces me, yet so radiant it heals me all at once. My breath catches as he gestures gently toward the bridge. My chest tightens, my eyes widen, my lips curl into a trembling smile. I nod, unable to hold back the flood of emotion.
And then I rise. I take my first step toward the bridge. This time - strangely, miraculously - nothing stops me. No invisible wall, no cruel barrier. The path is clear. My steps quicken, my heart races, my joy grows. Every movement feels like release, like forgiveness, like coming home.
But as I reach the middle, a sudden gust of wind sweeps across the meadow. The sound of the stream grows louder, swallowing everything else. I look up - he's still there, smiling. Or is he? His image flickers, wavering, like a reflection on unsteady water. I blink, and for a heartbeat, he seems solid. I blink again, and he seems to dissolve into the light.
I stretch my hand out across the last few feet of the bridge, desperate to touch him, to know this is real. My fingertips tingle with anticipation, with hope, with fear. And just before they meet, my eyes snap open to the hospital room.
The beeping of the machines continues. The still body lies before me, unchanged. His hand is still in mine, limp and warm. My cheeks are wet, though I don't remember when I began to cry.
Did I dream it? Did I imagine the smile, the bridge, the silent promise of reconciliation? Or did I glimpse something beyond this world, some fragile hope that refuses to die even in the darkest hours?
I don't know. And perhaps I never will.
But I hold his hand tighter, whispering into the silence: If there is a bridge, Brother, I will wait for you at the other end - whether here, in this life, or beyond it.