Leadro ached to be a bridge. Not grand – just a humble arch over trickling rainwater, or a spine linking two rusted turbines. Something that mattered.
A shelf? He shrugged off mugs, buckled under paperbacks. A silent strike against his flat, unloved life.
Then, a gardener nestled an ivy onto its ledge. “This’ll stitch the room to the garden,” she murmured. Roots gripped its seams; leaves lunged for the window. A student wedged in a sketchbook smudged with willow charcoal. A mechanic left a spare bolt 'for luck'.
One dawn, Leadro woke to an ecosystem: thirsty roots, half-drawn dreams, borrowed trust. A bridge isn’t always about spanning, he realised. Sometimes it’s about holding what connects.
Now, he bears his load like a vow. Shelves, it thinks, are just bridges turned sideways.