Shadows and Sparks or The Overthere Bridge

A little café sat quietly at the corner of a cascading, lively street. Its faded sign, with its old emblem, swaying in the wind like a flag waving to be seen. Once inside, the air was steeped in the bittersweet aroma of coffee—sharp and familiar—with a faint trace of cinnamon, like a pitching one’s memory trying to resurface. The hum of the espresso machine mingled with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of spoons against ceramic.

Cassie sat at her usual corner table, her journal open in front of her. The page stared back, blank and stubborn, as if daring her to fill it. She had written two words at the top: What’s next? The question written down in black and white, the questions that had been haunting her for so long that almost became a visible part of her, edged in the wrinkles of her freckled nose and her shadowed eyes just a bit lighter than the grey drizzle wearing falling outside.

Beyond the foggy windows, the city blurred in muted tones. You could see people moving through the streets like coloured shadows, their faces downturned, protected against the rain, their steps hurried as if walking fast would save them from being wet. Everything about the day felt suspended—caught between something finished and something yet to begin. Cassie tapped her pen against the journal with the nicely hand-made leather strap and thick carton covers. The sound of her pen made a dull, soft sound.

The café, The Pinetree Inn, felt like a temporary home to her, a place between worlds. Its cracked cream walls and scratched tables, too worn to be part of the present, smelled like the house fittings of her grandparents and also seemed to belong to the past. Yet its warm lights and the low, unsteady hum of life gave it a sense of delight in waiting—as if it might, at any moment, become a life and busy.

At the table next to Cassie, a man scrolled through his phone, the blue glow highlighting the faint lines of exhaustion etched on his face. Across the L-shaped room, two girly students hunched over a laptop, the lid covered with stickers, whispered cheerfully but blended with the clatter of keys. Most of them, the regulars at least, seemed tethered to their regular thoughts and favourite drinks, to their practice of regularity, the here and now like always. But Cassie couldn’t shake the feeling that habitues were all waiting, doubtfully waiting and lingering on a threshold, unknowingly waiting for a step that might take them… elsewhere.

“Still stuck?” Max’s voice broke through her thoughts. He slid into the chair across from her, his leather backpack hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Cassie sighed and closed her journal. “More like stuck between stuck and nowhere. Everything feels blurry. Like I’m trying to spit the words on paper without having the spit, like cross a river in a dream, where your feed won’t move, and there’s no bridge where you thought it was.”

Max pulled out his sketchpad, its corners bent from use. “Yeah. It’s like having all the pieces to a puzzle but no picture on the box.” His hands were smudged with faint streaks of colour—blue, green, and a little gold—as if he had just painted the pieces of his creativity puzzle.

They sat silently, the café’s muted noise filling the space between them. Then, something unusual happened. A soft hum rose, faint at first, like the distant vibration of a string being plucked. It grew louder and more evident, weaving itself into the air.

Cassie frowned her pen still in her hand. “Do you hear that?”

Max tilted his head, the corners of his sketchpad slipping from his fingers. “Yeah… but what is it?” Is it inside or outside?

The humdrum swelled, and in the foggy windows, a golden-tinted reflection shimmered like shifting sunlight on rippling water. Slowly, the glow solidified into the shape of an oversized bumblebee-like figure, its body gleaming like polished amber. Its wings shimmered, catching the light like threads spun from molten gold.

“Well,” the big bee said, its voice warm and vibrant, “it’s about time someone noticed.”

Cassie blinked, her breath catching. The scent of coffee and cinnamon faded, replaced by a meadow’s fresh, earthy sweetness after rain. “What… what are you?”

“I,” the figure declared, landing his hand on her journal, “am Ambrosius. And judging by the look on your faces, you’re both sitting overwhelmed at the Pinetree’s Inn window table while holding the railing of the Overthere Bridge.”

Max leaned closer, his scepticism replaced by wide-eyed wonder. “The what, The Overthere Bridge? What’s that?”

Ambrosius’s buzzed and blended with the café’s background hum. “I will tell you”, he smilingly answered. “It’s the exact space between where you are and where you could be. It’s a place where reality meets possibility, where through the bows in the world glows in the reflection white, from with what might yet to become”. Poetic, isn’t it, that bridge?

Cassie stared at Ambrosius, her fingers brushing against the blank page of her journal. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“Everything,” Ambrosius said, his brown eyes gleaming. “You’re here because you’re ready for a story of what is not yet told. The kind that lights a spark for your journal and will cast the shadows of your writer’s block. I hope that reminds you how to cross the bridge from what is to what could be.”

Max scowled. “A story? What’s the point of that? It’s not like words can change anything.” The bee chuckled, like the rustling of leaves in a gentle wind. “Ah, but stories are how we build the bridge. They plant seeds in the gaps between doubt and hope. They remind you that every leap begins with a step, even when the ground seems far below.” As I pass by almost every other day, I glance inside the cafe and see Cassie sitting here regularly, drinking her chocolate coffee and using her pen as a drumstick without using the ink to write. Let me help you write by telling you a story or two.

Overwhelmed by the charming spell of his words, Cassie glanced down at her journal, overthinking Ambrosius’ proposal. For a moment, she was silent and looked at Max, who was looking at her. “And if I write them down? Can you share them slowly so I can at least get the pitch”.

Ambrosius’s glow brightened, casting light across the table. “Alright,” he said. “Then let the magic begin. Let me tell you of mountains that whisper, skies that blaze with stolen colours, and dreams that refuse to stay silent. And as you listen, perhaps you’ll find the courage to take that first step— pick up your pen and write while Max can draw out his imagination to cross the Overthere Bridge.”

He leaned over, hovering above the journal, his warm voice humming like a melody waiting to unfold. “Listen closely,” Ambrosius said, soft and sure. “Every story carries a truth. And some truth, my dear, is yours to write.”

© Andric van Es