Bridges, Chapter Two

He was worried. She seemed to be having the hallucinations of a dying person. He was right about the dying. “Who the hell is Anne Elizabeth Bellingham?” he demanded hoping she would drift back into reality. “Bridges,” was her whispered reply, “bridges. You must write the story.”

He wanted to know more, but she was no longer grasping his hand. He knew she was gone. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t move. She was gone, and he didn’t know who it was lying in that bed. Was it the woman he had loved or a stranger?

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