The Inspector
Thandavan had inspected the footbridge for nineteen years, and in nineteen years no one had thanked him, which, as he often told his daughter, was how you knew he was doing it right.
Today he found a hairline crack in the third bolt plate. He crouched with his torch and his small notebook. It was thinner than a thread of the cotton his mother used to sew with. Most people would have walked past it. Most people had.
He photographed it, measured it, drew it in the notebook with the date, and wrote his report in the plain sentences nobody reads until something goes wrong. Then, because a report might be filed and forgotten, he telephoned the engineer himself and stayed on the line while the man pretended not to be annoyed.
That evening a school party crossed the bridge, forty children in blue shorts and white shirts, singing over the river and the crack and the long gold light. None of them looked down. None of them needed to.
He watched from the bank with a flask of tea. The bridge shook very slightly under the singing, as bridges do when they are being trusted, and held.
Invented. No real person is described, and the story is not a portrait of anyone born under this sign.