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It’s 5 am. I’m sitting on the edge of the stone bridge of my hometown. The birds sing and the trees dance to the sound of the wind, leaves whispering as the water runs beneath me. I inhale the fresh, cold morning air. It freezes my lungs and sends goosebumps through my spine. I remember coming here as a child, with my mother, aunt and sister. We used to go on walks and whenever we crossed this bridge, I used to lean over the bridge, amazed with the water and its magical glow. I collected stones and stacked them at the edge of the bridge, then knocked them out and watched the stones fall into the water, amazed with the ripples they created. Suddenly, I get up. I cross the rest of the bridge and start looking for the same old stones. Filling my arms with them, I then approach the bridge and start making little piles. I stare at the piles of stones. The last step of the “ritual” is to be performed now. I push the stones out of the bridge. They fall, but, this time, I fall with them, plunging into the cold water. And I feel free.