The flags look like they’re racing each other to touch the sky.

The bridge rose above me with a quiet confidence, its steel arch catching the sunlight in sharp, geometric lines. Two flags fluttered at its summit—one a symbol of a nation, the other a testament to its first peoples. I found myself staring upward, marveling at how something so industrial could feel almost alive against the vibrant sky. The air carried a faint metallic tang, as if the bridge itself was exhaling. Below, the harbor stretched out in lazy ripples, its surface reflecting the occasional glint of a passing ferry. A streetlamp nearby stood like an uninvited guest in my frame of vision, its modernity clashing with the timeless elegance of the structure above. Yet somehow, it all felt right—an imperfect harmony that only this city could master.