4.

The train sounds different as it rides over a bridge. It is a sound of celebration as much as a song of war, the infallible rhythm of drumbeaters in a row. The beat grows progressively louder till it moves into the very core of your being to direct the way your heart thuds. Then it is gone, grown suddenly silent, only to begin with a drum roll again.

We stare at the water mesmerized. The city lights are not far. Their arms reach out to us even as the bridge takes us away. But they cannot understand this world of drumbeat and mist. On another bridge on the other side, a train runs to the city we’ve just left – a solitary line of sparklers against pitch darkness.

I know now what she meant when she spoke about crossing the water.

This is the silence of astounded souls.