“It’s just the mist,” he said.
The encouragement had faded from his tone through many repetitions, though he still forced a smile.
It was not the mist, but I could not tell him so.
In thick fog I might have stepped boldly onto the bridge, but the mist was torn into streamers, and dizzying glimpses of grass and rock and surging tide made my vision harder to ignore. He took my elbow impatiently, but still I could not explain.
Where he saw a fine paved highway, I saw a ribbon of untethered sleepers, the plaything of a tempest.
I could not tell him that. I took what courage I could from the feel of a breeze that was only the ghost of the storm I saw and remained silent, but not because he would doubt me. He would not.
He knew my vision, though adrift in time, was true.
Inspired by #VisDare, and you know the drill … follow the link for the photo prompt and all the other prose it has kindled.
Alex Brightsmith 