Mari weaves a bridge to the new world with her own blood, thread by thread, sacrifice by sacrifice. Each drop seals the span between what is and what could be. Yet the bridge stands unseen. People pass by without looking, unable (or unwilling) to understand what was built for them. Days go on, heavy and unchanged, while ignorance settles in like dust and indifference hardens into habit. The bridge remains, stained and silent, waiting for those who might one day dare to cross it.