22/09/2025
Gather her if you love and enjoy storytelling. Ĺìƙe, fõľľôẁ and sĥařè so you don't miss out at all.
Title: THE BRIDGE OF TWO RIVERS 🌉
Day 1 – Chapter One: A Town Divided.
The river that split the town of Eshara was wide and restless. Its waters, once crossed daily with laughter and trade, now roared like a barrier between enemies. On the western bank lived the carpenters, proud builders whose wooden crafts shaped the town. On the eastern side lived the farmers, whose hands fed every family. For generations, they had lived as one community, sharing food, work, and festivals.
But then came a quarrel. It began with a simple trade—one man accusing another of cheating. Pride flared, tongues sharpened, and what should have been resolved in a single day grew like a w**d in the heart of Eshara. Bridges were left unrepaired, boats were pulled away, and slowly the two banks became strangers glaring across the waters.
Children who once ran together now stopped at the edge of the river. Markets shrank. Even weddings ceased between the banks. The river that had bound them became a wound that no one dared to heal.
Amara stood at the edge of the broken bridge, her heart heavy. She was the daughter of a carpenter and a farmer—her mother from the east, her father from the west. She had known both banks, both families, both joys. But now, her heart ached at the silence.
She touched the rotting beams of the bridge, still jutting from the river like broken teeth. Once, her father had carried her across this very path on his shoulders. Once, her mother had sung to her as they crossed with baskets of fruit. Now the beams groaned and swayed with the current, a reminder of what had been lost.
“Why must we live like this?” she whispered.
Behind her, neighbors muttered. “Don’t waste your tears, Amara. They chose their side. Let them rot there.”
That night, as she lay awake, her grandmother’s words stirred in her memory: Love builds, hatred destroys. Where one is present, the other cannot stand.
She sat up suddenly, eyes burning with resolve. If no one else would mend what was broken, then she would. She would rebuild the bridge—not for trade, not for pride, but for love.
The next morning, as the sun rose over the misty waters, Amara walked to the riverbank with a hammer in her hand. Alone, with the roar of the current beneath her, she placed the first plank of wood.
From across the river, farmers paused in their work. Carpenters shook their heads. Laughter rose from both sides.
“Foolish girl,” someone scoffed.
“She’ll never finish,” another jeered.
But Amara’s hands did not stop. Each strike of her hammer echoed like a heartbeat. With every nail, she whispered: Love builds, hatred destroys.
And though she worked alone, though the world doubted, a spark had been lit.
The story of Eshara was about to change.
....To be continued........
