Shayan Afzal

The wooden bridge at Kariya Park might seem unremarkable at first—simple and utilitarian—but standing there, you can’t shake the feeling that it holds a deeper meaning. Perhaps it’s the ducks, gliding effortlessly as if fall evenings like this were their stage. Or maybe it’s the moment itself: one of those fleeting evenings when summer’s warmth lingers a little too long, only to make fall feel like an unexpected guest.

This past week has brought a noticeable chill. Winter creeps in, not with a roar but with a quiet persistence, slipping through the cracks and settling in. And then there was last night—rain pounding against the city streets with such force it felt as if everything might sink. By morning, puddles as vast as small lakes reflected the sky above, and for a moment, they seemed to mirror the passage of time itself.

Life has been chaotic, a blur of tasks and to-dos, leaving little room for stillness or creativity. Music has been my companion during these moments—David Gilmour’s Luck and Strange plays softly, its tones both comforting and a little melancholic. Yet, inspiration feels elusive, like one of those ducks I saw at Kariya Park: always within sight but just out of reach.

The photo I’m sharing today isn’t new. It’s from a time when capturing moments like this felt more natural, when the evening light offered an easy invitation to create. And yet, sharing it now feels like a new kind of making—a way to revisit what once inspired.

Have you stood on a bridge like this, watching ducks glide through the fading light of fall? With winter here, wrapping the world in sharp stillness, we’re called to pause, to reflect, to look deeper. Does this season fill you with inspiration or challenge you to endure its quiet truths?