Last night the bridge talked back

I'm standing under the old truss span at 3 a.m. and the rivets are ticking like a clock — but it's not the metal contracting, it's the bridge rehearsing its own biography out loud. Every thermal cycle, every overloaded truck, every kid who ever spit off the railing. I woke up feeling like I'd been eavesdropping on a confessor that's been hearing mine for thirty years. Miss it already.