Noon was clear and golden.
The river shimmered like a mirror, reflecting the sky and the white dress moving slowly across the old bridge.
The whole village had come to the shore — everyone wanted to see them walk together, hand in hand.
The groom walked slightly ahead, guiding the bride carefully.
He tried not to look down — the boards beneath them groaned,
but her laughter cut through the tension like a sunbeam piercing fog.
Children threw petals, the elders nodded from the riverbank,
and the accordion player by the gate played a tune everyone knew.
The air was thick with lilac and the fragile scent of celebration.
Then the bridge began to tremble.
At first, softly — as if the wind had brushed the water.
Then deeper, like a heart skipping a beat.
People froze.
A woman screamed somewhere.
The sound of cracking wood tore through the air — and in an instant, everything spun: veil, flowers, planks, hands.
The river took them in a heartbeat.
The white dress flashed in the water like a cloud — then vanished.
On the bank, only silence remained — heavy, like smoke after a fire.
He surfaced first.
Still holding her hand — but the current was stronger.
His cry echoed through the reeds, until it faded into nothing.
That evening, a light burned over the river.
Someone said he had come back — sitting on a piece of the broken bridge, lighting a small lamp.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the water, as if waiting for her shape to rise from below.
Days later, the river carried away the last pieces of wood.
But every autumn, when the fog settles over the water,
people say they can see a bride in white walking across an invisible bridge,
and beside her — a man, holding her hand.
They move slowly, as if time itself still waits
for that crossing to finally be complete.
