In my childhood, the town seemed like two separate worlds. No one wrote the laws about it, yet everyone behaved as if they were in force. The area to the east of the city, where my family and I lived, was both the streets and houses that the paint was going to peel off. The west side had well kept roads, bright street lamps, and orderly gardens. People stuck to their side.
When I was twelve, I was still clueless about the reason. The grown-ups were only giving us uneasiness. "Don't go over to their side. They hate us." "Stick with those who are like you." I became their follower until Ada came into my life.
Both worlds were in contact only at the old stone bridge. Most people didn't pay attention and crossed it in a hurry. For me, the bridge was the place of silence and a great spot to watch the river transporting the leaves. The sun that was going down turned the water into gold.
That day, I had the impression that I was by myself, when suddenly I heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel.
“Are you spying on us?” a girl’s voice said.
I looked around. She seemed to be about my age. She wore a red sweater, and her braids moved as she came closer.
“No,” I said nervously, “I am only sitting here.”
“You are from the east side, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then you shouldn’t be here.”
“So are you here,” I replied.
She lifted her eyebrows and then chuckled a little. “I am Ada.”
“Sam.”
She sat far away, leaving space between us. We watched the water in silence.
After a while, she said, “My mom says people from your side don’t trust anyone.”
“My uncle says people from your side think they’re better,” I replied.
Ada sighed. “Maybe they’re both wrong.”
Those words stayed with me.
We started meeting at the bridge again. At first, we pretended it was chance. Soon, it became our secret.
Ada was fond of drawing. She came with her drawing book. From a street seller, I bought roasted peanuts. Once, she revealed to me her sketch of the bridge. Not only the things that were visible the stones' cracks, the moss, the golden water were depicted.
“It is wonderful," I said.
“I’m just kidding,” she said, but I could see her smile.
I shared my dream with her about repairing old bicycles. I was attracted to the fact that the decay could be reversed with some attention and maintenance.
The bridge stopped feeling like a wall. It started feeling like a safe place.
One evening, Ada came with red eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“My parents found out I’ve been meeting someone from the east,” she whispered. “My dad yelled. He said your people bring trouble.”
I was hurt by what she said, but I also understood that it was not her intention to hurt me.
"Perhaps it would be a good idea to call an end," I said feeling quite weighed down in my chest.
She disagreed with the statement. "No, I am not longing for a stop. It is just that I cannot figure how to make them understand." There was silence between us. We could hear nothing else but the river. Then she added, "Maybe they would feel different if they could see what I see."
The river was flooded with a heavy rain a week after, the water had already occupied the east-side streets. Besides that, a big number of houses were wrecked; my mom and I managed to run away but not everyone was that lucky.
I stayed away from the bridge for 48 hours. I didn’t want to assume Ada’s visit. However, on the third day, she came. She had two bags and a loaf of bread with her.
“These are for your neighbors,” she said. Her fingers shook, but her gaze was resolute.
I started to say, “You don’t need to”
“I want to,” she said.
She walked with me to the community hall where families were sheltering. At first, people stared at her. Some whispered. But when Ada handed a blanket to a crying child, their faces softened.
That night, on the bridge, she asked, “Do they still hate me?”
“I don’t think they ever hated you,” I said. “They just didn’t know you.”
A few days later, Ada invited me to her side.
“Your dad…” I began.
“He won’t be happy,” she said. “But maybe if he meets you…”
We crossed the bridge. My heart pounded as we passed neat sidewalks and bright gardens. Her house was painted blue, with flowers at the door.
Her father was outside fixing a fence. When he saw me, his face tightened.
“Dad,” Ada said. “This is Sam. He helped during the flood.”
I swallowed. “Sir, I just wanted to thank Ada for the food and clothes. It meant a lot.”
He stayed silent for a moment. Then he nodded slightly and went back to work. It wasn’t approval, but it wasn’t anger either.
People on the west side began bringing supplies to the east. At first, they came slowly, unsure. But things changed. Kids from both sides played football together. Women shared recipes. Men rebuilt damaged walls side by side.
One Saturday, we all joined for a river cleanup. The sun was bright, and laughter filled the air. Ada’s father came, too. He fixed a broken bench on our side.
Later, he stood beside me. “Your people work hard,” he said quietly.
I nodded. “So do yours.”
Months passed. The bridge turned into a meeting place. Vendors sold snacks from both sides. Musicians played songs that mixed our styles. At sunset, lanterns glowed while people laughed together.
Ada and I still met there, but now it wasn’t a secret.
One evening, she gave me her sketchbook. Inside was a new picture: the bridge full of people children running, adults talking, everyone smiling.
“You made this happen,” she said.
“No,” I said. “We did.”
Years later, after leaving the city, I came back. I wanted to see the bridge again.
It was freshly painted, with flowers along the railings. A small plaque stood at one end. It read:
"Here, two children believed in understanding when others did not. Because of them, this city found its heart again."
I stood for a long time, listening to the river. People crossed freely now.
In the crowd, I saw a woman with familiar braids holding a little boy’s hand. Ada saw me and waved.
The river still rushed below, carrying leaves and memories.
And our bridge stood strong. It was no longer a line that split two worlds. It was the place where they came together.
