The pier stretched into the horizon like a question carved in wood—straight, unwavering, yet ending in a choice. To the left or to the right, the path split, mirroring the symmetry of the sky above. The sun, half-sunken into the ocean’s embrace, painted the world in fire and gold, while the water reflected it back with a stillness that felt almost sacred.
It was said that this pier was not built by human hands. Local fishermen whispered that it appeared one morning after a storm, its planks untouched by salt or time. Some called it a bridge to nowhere. Others, a threshold between worlds.
As the day surrendered to twilight, a traveler arrived. She carried no map, no compass—only a story she had not yet told. The pier welcomed her footsteps with a hollow rhythm, each board echoing like a heartbeat. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and the hush of waves, as if the sea itself was holding its breath.
At the end of the pier, where the walkway split into two arms, she paused. To the left, the water shimmered with the last embers of the sun—warm, alive, promising renewal. To the right, the ocean deepened into indigo shadows—mysterious, infinite, calling her into the unknown.
The traveler realized then that the pier was not a bridge at all. It was a mirror. A place where the soul confronted its own reflection, where every choice revealed not a destination, but a truth.
She closed her eyes, listening to the silence between the waves. And when she opened them again, the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, leaving only the afterglow—a reminder that endings are never endings, only transformations.
The pier remained, waiting for the next soul brave enough to walk its length.
