There was a man who sat by an abandoned bridge on top of a river several days a week.

He found peace in the water and the way it went down, how it hit against the rocks, the ocassional fish or two that would swim by it.

Every so days, someone would come by the bridge. Sometimes they were searching for peace and quiet, sometimes they wished to take some photographs, sometimes it would be someone who thought to take a bath.

And then, came the sad ones. Sad, lost little souls, who came by the bridge to escape from a sad life. Escape, in less than nice ways.

And he would speak to them. He would open up, try to get them to see in better ways. For all the socially awkward he was, he knew how to get to people. And one after one, he saw them all slowly regain their light, get better, get some hope back.

And then they would leave. And he would be left back to his peace. To his calmed loneliness.

But more people would come by, and his fun little space would become grimmer and grimmer.

Slowly, the bridge and the river started to change meaning from peace and quiet to a place where he would waste all the little energy he'd have left to try and prevent someone's doom.

And he couldn't stop coming - he knew someone new could come by, and he'd need to be there to see them. To talk them out of it.

And even if it hurt, even if he felt himself turning grimmer, he went by, because it was the right thing to do... Right? It was... The correct thing.

...

One week, he stopped going. He felt as if it wasn't worth it. His life was already going down in flames, and even if he felt terrible about it, he couldn't help anyone else if he couldn't help himself.

Another week went by, and he was still in bed. And another went by.

Eventually, he felt so bad, he packed what he needed, and made his way to the bridge. He was gonna do what he had prevented so many people from doing. He didn't care anymore. He was a broken man.

And when he got there... He saw someone. Sitting by the bridge, looking at the water. He left his stuff by the bridge, and prepared himself to jump.

But before he did, the man sitting in the bride began talking to him. In a persuasive, nice, calmed tone. And he allowed him to vent, and to open himself, and to feel better.

And slowly, he got back his spark, he got back his joy. He got back his light.

As he grabbed his stuff back, he thanked the stranger. And for a second, he looked oh so familiar.

And he left... He came back to the bridge the following days, and the man wasn't there. But it was okay. He didn't need him every day.

For he had his quiet... His peace... And knew he wasn't alone... Even if it could feel like so.

Redacted by Rafa, CustomerON. Thanks for reading. Opinions regarding the story are appreciated <3.