Thirty-three pedestals. No kings.

Before the kingdom, there was the bridge. No one remembers who laid the first stone — only that it was there before anyone needed it, and that it did not ask to be crossed.

On the far side there was wealth, and a hooded man who took his cut of everything that passed. He was not cruel about it. He simply understood that a crossing has a price, and that the price is always paid to whoever is standing at the other end.

There was also a keeper. Small, patient, spectacled. He kept the arch standing, and asked for nothing, which is why nobody wrote his name down.

Everyone who crossed fought someone. That is what crossing is for. And every one of them, once across, built a monument.

Permanence is rented, not owned. The wind takes two percent a day. Most stop paying. The face goes first, then the name, then the shape.

Walk the plain today and you will find thirty-three empty pedestals, and sand. And behind them, unbothered, still charging nothing — the bridge.