He had not slept. Morning was approaching but the windows still depicted darkness. The attempt to eat something failed, so he left on a sick and empty stomach. The cold air made his body forget. The effortful coordination of his legs over the hard pavement desensitized his mind. He must have walked for six kilometers, breathing in the moist air through his nostrils until his insides were damp. A fragment of the bridge came into sight; most of it was obscured by fog. He paused and glanced at the metal structure, his heart throbbing. No cars, no others, just silence. Keeping his body close to the railing, he cut slowly through the mist. He selected a resting point. Why this precise point he neither knew nor wished to know. He looked down into the indeterminable depth. He did not see the water, only his deathly white knuckles gripping a rusty bar. A final examination of his surroundings revealed the figure of a man, arbitrarily emerging out of the remote and imperceptible part of the bridge. He surely would have been startled, had his nerves not been numbed. He simply looked at the man, observing how he pressed his body against the railing and gazed despondently down into the hazy distance. When the man raised his head, eyes at last encountered eyes. A prolonged gaze, recognition, understanding. He turned around, his legs seeking home. Effortless coordination. It sometimes takes a mirror to prevent a tragedy.