Noboribetsu, a beautiful place of Japan. While traveling through the quiet countryside, my eyes were drawn to a wooden bridge in the distance—long and wide, its weathered planks stretching across a gentle river. The bridge seemed to belong to the land, an ancient part of the landscape that had witnessed time move by but remained steadfast, unmoved. It blended seamlessly into the rolling hills on either side, its edges softened by the embrace of nature. Vines curled around its beams, and moss covered parts of its surface, giving it a timeless, almost mystical quality. I couldn’t resist walking toward it. As I stepped closer, the sound of the river flowing beneath the bridge filled the air—an inviting, rhythmic murmur that seemed to pull me into the moment. The hills around me grew steeper, their slopes dotted with patches of trees and wildflowers. It was as if this bridge was the gateway between two worlds: one of civilization and one of nature, where the wild hills and foggy air met the simplicity of human design.
Then, as I stood on the bridge, something magical happened. Clouds, like soft tendrils of mist, began to descend from the mountains above. They came slowly, swirling down the slopes like a quiet, ethereal tide. The fog rolled over the land, creeping across the fields and spreading all around, thickening until it felt like the world had been wrapped in a veil of white. The air grew cooler, and the landscape transformed into a soft, blurred painting of muted tones.
For a moment, everything seemed to vanish—the sky, the hills, the distant sounds—leaving me in a world where only the mist and the old wooden bridge remained. It was as if time itself had slowed, and I was standing in the very heart of nature’s dream. The clouds wrapped around me, cocooning the landscape in a kind of serene isolation, where nothing existed but the quiet hum of the earth and the peaceful presence of the bridge, timeless and steady.
