Elza left the shop, the card tucked close to her heart. Months later, when her own grief had turned from a storm into a quiet river, she sat in a café and saw a man weeping over a photograph. Without a word, she opened her bag, took out the card with the silver willow, and slid it across the table. The bridge was open again.

She tried to pay for it, but László shook his head. "The card is a traveler. You don't buy it; you host it until you find the next person who needs the bridge."

One rainy Tuesday, a young woman named Elza walked in. She didn't look for antiques; she looked for a place to stand still. Her coat was soaked, and she clutched a crumpled telegram from the countryside. Her brother, a musician she hadn't seen in years, was gone.