The bridge looks like it’s holding up the sky for the Opera House.

The bridge loomed above me like a giant piece of art that refused to be confined to a gallery. I walked along the waterfront, where the shadows of its arch stretched lazily over the water. The Opera House seemed almost shy in comparison, its curves softened by the evening light. A group of seagulls circled overhead, their cries blending into the distant hum of a ferry engine. The air smelled faintly of salt and something metallic—perhaps from the bridge itself. I paused near Luna Park’s entrance again, its cheerful lights flickering as if winking at passersby. The harbor had a way of making you feel both small and infinite at once.