Even bridges have better fences than my backyard.

The pylons seemed to stand guard over a realm both ancient and modern. Their weathered surfaces bore witness to decades of stories as I walked beneath their shadow. The fencing curved overhead like a protective ribcage, framing the endless blue sky beyond. Below me, the hum of tires on asphalt rose and fell like waves crashing against a distant shore. A jogger passed by with rhythmic steps that seemed to sync with the pulse of the city itself. I stopped to trace my fingers along the cold steel railing—its texture rough yet reassuring. The harbor glimmered far below, a mirror reflecting fragments of clouds that drifted aimlessly above. Somewhere in the distance, a ferry horn sounded faintly, as if calling out to those who dared to pause and listen.