Page 43 of The Silence Between

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The “Welcome to Riverton”sign appeared in my headlights just past nine PM, its faded paint and slight tilt suggesting maintenance issues that mirrored the town's general economic decline. Crossing the town line felt significant—a threshold between my constructed life and the authentic one I hoped to recover.

Main Street unfolded before me, simultaneously familiar and altered. West Riverton's commercial district had attempted revitalization. But beneath these cosmetic improvements, I recognized the same fundamental layout, the same invisible boundary approaching as I neared the river that divided the town both geographically and socioeconomically.

I slowed as I approached the bridge crossing to East Riverton, memories surfacing with physical clarity—teenage Leo walking this route daily, the careful calculations we once made about where we could safely be seen together, the weight of Riverton's divisions that had ultimately proved too heavy for our relationship to bear.

Acting on impulse rather than plan, I turned onto River Road instead of crossing, following its curve to where the abandoned railroad bridge had once spanned the water. This detour wasn't on my itinerary but some magnetic pull drew me toward this specific location.

I parked in the gravel lot now marked “River Slate Overlook,” a halfhearted attempt at creating a scenic spot from abandoned industrial space. Stepping out into the humid night air, I followed the path toward where the bridge had stood.

Only it wasn't there.

Where the railroad bridge should have been stood nothing but concrete abutments. The span itself had been removed, leaving a gap between shores that mirrored the separation in my own life.

“They took it down two years ago,” came a voice from behind me. “Deemed it a safety hazard.”

I turned to find a police officer watching me with cautious curiosity, flashlight pointed at the ground rather than my face but clearly assessing whether I represented trouble.

“Just visiting,” I explained. “Used to come here as a teenager.”

His posture relaxed slightly. “Yeah, lot of kids did. Town council debated replacing it with a pedestrian bridge, but the budget wouldn't stretch. You from around here originally?”

“West Riverton,” I confirmed. “Just moved back to teach at the high school.”

“Brave man,” he chuckled, the comment carrying multiple potential meanings in a town where education funding had always been contentious. He nodded toward the missing bridge. “Sorry about your landmark. Things change, though generally not for the better around here.”

After he departed, I remained staring at the empty space above the water. The bridge's absence felt symbolic—the physical connection between sides of Riverton gone just as the connection between my past and present selves had been severed. Yet standing there, I could still access visceral memories. Leo's serious expression as he analyzed poetry, his rare laughter when I managed to break through his guardedness, the warmth of his hand in mine that first time we dared to acknowledge what existed between us.

Marcus had been deliberately vague in our correspondence, respecting privacy while confirming Leo remained in Riverton. This limited information left critical questions unanswered.

As I turned back toward my car, these unknowns weighed heavily. There was both hope and fear about potential reconnection. But standing where our bridge had once allowed us to exist between Riverton's divisions, I recognized that whatever happened, I needed to face this unfinished chapter of my life.

Some bridges, once burned, couldn't be rebuilt. But perhaps new ones might still be possible.

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Early morning lightstreamed through the east-facing windows of classroom 237, illuminating dust particles dancing in golden beams. I'd arrived nearly two hours before first period, arranging desks in a semicircle rather than rows, unpacking boxes of books I'd selected to supplement the standard curriculum, writing my name on the whiteboard in blocked letters that felt simultaneously presumptuous and inadequate.

MR. WEBB - ENGLISH LITERATURE

The classroom smelled of industrial cleaner and ancient knowledge, that particular blend unique to educational institutions. As I moved through the space, organizing handouts and checking technology connections, I found myself repeatedly glancing toward the hallway whenever footsteps passed. Each time, my heart accelerated with the possibility that Leo might appear, though logic insisted the likelihood was minimal. Marcus had mentioned he worked night shifts, cleaning these same classrooms long after students and teachers departed.

I arranged copies of poetry collections on the front table, selecting Frost's work for the first unit. “The Road Not Taken” seemed appropriate given my current life pivot, though I planned to focus on how readers often misinterpreted its actual meaning—assuming it celebrated unconventional choices when it really explored how we construct narratives about our decisions after the fact. The irony of teaching this particular poem while attempting to rewrite my own life's narrative wasn't lost on me.

“Planning to corrupt young minds with subversive literature on day one?” Marcus's voice came from the doorway, accompanied by the aroma of fresh coffee.

He entered carrying two travel mugs, looking remarkably unchanged from our high school days except for a neatly trimmed beard and more confident posture. Where I had fled Riverton to prove myself, Marcus had stayed by choice, finding purpose teaching the same English classes that had once inspired him.

“Thought you might need reinforcements,” he said, handing me one of the mugs. “First day jitters are real, even for fancy published authors.”

“Former fancy published author,” I corrected, accepting the coffee gratefully. “Current terrified new teacher.”

Marcus settled on the edge of a desk, surveying my classroom setup with approval. “The semicircle. Bold choice. Signals discussion rather than lecture.”

“Is that a mistake? Should I go with traditional rows?”

“Not at all. Just noting your teaching philosophy is already showing.” He sipped his coffee, studying me over the rim. “How's it feel being back? Weird?”

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