Where the River Divides

The small town of Coldwater was notorious for its bridge — a creaking, swaying relic that connected two halves of a town as divided as the rushing river it spanned. It was both a lifeline and a battlefield, its planks worn smooth by generations of footsteps but splintered from decades of disputes. Coldwater was a town where grudges were passed down like heirlooms, and none was older or more enduring than the one between the Shanahan and Kahan families.

For as long as anyone could remember, the two families had loathed each other, though no one really knew why anymore. Grudges, like roots, twist deep into the soil and choke out new growth. In Coldwater, everyone knew that if you were a Shanahan, you didn’t speak to a Kahan, and vice versa. You didn’t cross the bridge unless you had to, and you certainly didn’t linger.

But the town's history was about to be rewritten by two unlikely friends — Jon Shanahan and Devir Kahan.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

Jon had always been a dreamer. It started with stories his late mother used to tell him on warm summer nights. She’d speak of a world where people could put aside their differences and work together for something greater. “Remember, Jon,” she’d say, her voice soft as a lullaby, “the best bridges are the ones that bring people together.” Those words had stayed with him, even after she passed away when he was only ten.

But his father, Wes Shanahan, was a different story. Cold, pragmatic, and hard as the iron nails in his workshop, Wes never spoke of peace or unity. For him, strength came from standing your ground, not building bridges. Jon’s optimism and wild dreams were dismissed as childish nonsense, and in time, Jon’s earnest attempts to impress his father only deepened the chasm between them.

Yet, every time Jon walked past the old bridge and saw the town split in half, he felt the weight of his mother’s words. Building the new bridge wasn’t just a way to unite Coldwater — it was Jon’s way of proving to himself, and maybe even to the ghost of his mother, that he was capable of something bigger than himself. And deep down, there was a tiny, flickering hope that if he succeeded, maybe his father would finally see him for who he was.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

Jon and Devir had never meant to become friends; it had simply happened in the way that things sometimes do when you’re young and naïve enough to believe that nothing is truly impossible. It started one sweltering summer afternoon when they found themselves on opposite sides of the bridge, each staring at the other through the wooden slats.

Jon was trying to drown out his father’s latest tirade by throwing rocks into the river. Devir was just wandering, as he often did, to escape the stifling tension of his own home. When their eyes met, there was a long, tense moment of recognition.

For a moment, the weight of their families’ feud hung between them like the heat shimmering off the water below. But Jon, driven by a need to break through the walls that surrounded him, grinned and tossed a rock underhanded toward Devir.

“Bet you can’t skip it five times,” Jon called.

Devir hesitated. He knew the rules; no Kahan was supposed to entertain a Shanahan. But something in Jon’s eyes — a spark of defiance, a refusal to accept the world as it was — compelled him to respond. He leaned over the railing, found his angle, and sent the rock flying. It skipped four times.

“You cheated,” Jon laughed, the sound unexpectedly bright in the oppressive heat.

“No, you just can’t count,” Devir shot back, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through his usual solemnity.

And that was that. They met again the next day, and the day after that, drawn to each other like moths to a flame. They skipped rocks, traded stories, dared each other to venture farther out on the rotting beams. For a while, they could forget that they were supposed to be enemies.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

Devir had always known he was different from his brother, Greg. Where Greg was all brute force and bluster, Devir was thoughtful, quiet, and desperate to leave behind the suffocating weight of family expectations. But Coldwater had a way of pulling you back in, no matter how hard you tried to escape. His father’s death had left their family drowning in debt, and his mother’s health was worsening. Every attempt to leave Coldwater was thwarted by another family crisis.

What kept Devir from fleeing wasn’t loyalty — it was guilt. A deep, gnawing guilt that if he left, his mother would suffer even more under Greg’s rough hand. So, Devir stayed. But meeting Jon had reignited something in him, a hope he thought he’d buried long ago. For the first time, he could see a way out — not just for himself, but for the town that had imprisoned him for so long.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

Jon’s plan to build the bridge together came out of that hope. “We should be the ones to do it,” he said, his eyes bright with the kind of conviction that only comes from youth. “We’ll show them that it’s possible. That we don’t have to keep hating each other.”

But Devir was more cautious. His heart had been hardened by years of disappointment. “You think it’s that simple?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“No,” Jon admitted, “but it’s a start.”

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

One night, as they worked in secret, Devir paused, hands trembling over a stack of planks. “Do you ever wonder why you keep trying?” he asked, voice barely audible over the rush of the river below.

Jon paused, hammer in hand. “Because if I stop,” he said softly, “then they win. My father, your brother... they win. And I can’t let that happen.”

Devir stared at him, torn between admiration and despair. For Jon, it was about proving something to his father. For Devir, it was about escaping a fate he couldn’t outrun.

*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

When their families found out, the bridge was torn down. Jon’s father’s fists left bruises, but it was the look of betrayal on Wes’s face that hurt more. Devir, meanwhile, faced Greg’s taunts and blows, the older brother taking sick pleasure in breaking whatever spark of hope had been rekindled in him.

Years passed. The bridge was left to rot, just like the dreams Jon and Devir had once shared.

But one rainy afternoon, Jon found himself back at the river. The remnants of the bridge they’d tried to build still stood like ghosts, taunting him. And there, standing in the rain, was Devir.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what we started,” Jon admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s too late,” Devir said, but his voice wavered.

“Maybe,” Jon replied, stepping closer. “But maybe it’s not about what we did. Maybe it’s about what we can still do.”

This time, when they built the bridge, they didn’t hide. And when it was done, they didn’t just cross it — they invited the whole town to watch.

As they stood on the center of the bridge, Jon turned to Devir. “We’ve done it,” he said, holding out his hand.

Devir hesitated, then grasped it firmly. This time, they both held on.