Page 12 of Hannah.
“That sounds amazing,” I say, my excitement bubbling over. “I don’t know anyone, so that would be great.”
Her laughter rings out, a melodic sound that instantly puts me at ease. “No problem whatsoever. You’re going to be like my new protégée!”
We exchange numbers, and I bid her farewell, heading to my next class with a smile. Making friends has never been this easy for me, but Astrid is the kind of person I want to hang out with even after college. Smart with easy confidence. In control andheading an exhibit of artwork that I love. My heart feels light as I walk across the campus in the early evening, my hand clutched over the bracelet in my pocket absentmindedly.
Astrid greets me at the building's entrance right after my final class, leaving me buoyed by the excitement of acing my first week of college. She’s switched attire, ditching her heels for sneakers and her maxi skirt for a pair of chinos.
“Ready to get to know the real Cambridge?” Her voice rings with anticipation, a clear invitation to step beyond the familiar. I nod, my curiosity piqued by the prospect of uncovering the layers of history alongside her.
We step out together, the air still holding the day's warmth. Cambridge at this hour is a spectacle of light and shadow, the ancient stones of the colleges glowing with a soft amber hue. Astrid moves with an ease that speaks of familiarity, her steps in harmony with the rhythmic clatter of bicycles and the distant murmurs of fellow students reveling in the day's end.
The city unfolds before us like a living tapestry, each street a thread woven with centuries of scholarship and discovery. I play with the strap of my bag absent-mindedly, taking it all in. We pass by grand old colleges, their spires piercing the sky, their courtyards whispering tales of bygone eras. The manicured lawns and lush gardens are quiet havens, dotted with students lost in thought or deep in conversation.
As we weave through the cobblestone streets, the blend of modernity and antiquity is striking. Contemporary cafes and bookshops nestle against the backdrop of Gothic arches and Romanesque facades, a testament to the city's seamless dance between the past and present.
Walking beside Astrid, I don’t feel that overwhelming feeling of being somewhat lost at all times. Her strides are long, and the loose set of her shoulders tells me that she knows exactly where she is going. I couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide. After a while, we finally make our first stop.
With a hint of reverence in her voice, Astrid raises her hand as if presenting something: “Here we’ve got the Bridge of Sighs. More than just an architectural marvel, it's a vessel of untold stories.”
“Wow.” My eyes take in the architectural marvel with its Gothic elegance and stone intricacy. Bathed in the amber light of the setting sun, the bridge casts a serene reflection on the water below. The arched windows along its covered walkway hint at the quiet footfalls of scholars past, making the bridge not just a crossing but a portal through time, linking the present to the echoes of history. “Looks like something from a fairy tale. Why's it called that?”
“Legend has it that the name was inspired by Venice’s Bridge of Sighs. But here, it's not prisoners sighing; it's the whispers of students past.”
“Whispers? What kind of whispers?”
Astrid leans closer, her voice dropping to a hush, blending with the gentle lapping of water beneath us.
“They say if you stand here on a quiet evening, you can hear the faint murmurs of scholars from centuries ago, debating, laughing, pondering the mysteries of the universe.”
“No way! Have you ever heard them?”
“Maybe... or maybe it was just the wind. But that's the beauty of it—the not knowing, the mystery. It’s like the bridge connects not just the two sides of the river but also the past with the present.”
We move closer to the edge, peering down into the water, now mirroring the fiery streaks of the setting sun.
“So, we’re standing right in the middle of history?”
“Exactly. Think of all the students who've crossed this bridge, heading to exams, to meet friends, or maybe to find a moment of peace.”
I reach out, my fingers brushing against the cool, time-worn stone, a tangible link to those countless footsteps and whispered dreams. “It’s like we’re a part of the story now, too.”
“Yep. Every time we walk these paths and linger by these monuments, we add our own layer to the story. Who knows? Maybe one day, someone will stand here, wondering about us.”
I hang on to her every word, captivated by my surroundings––but mostly by her. “How did you find your way into heritage studies?” I ask. “It’s like you were meant for this.”
Astrid's eyes linger on the bridge, her expression softening with the fondness of cherished memories. With a reflective smile, she says, “It’s funny how paths unfold. I grew up in a house filled with old books and artifacts. My parents were avid collectors—not of valuable antiques, but of items steeped in history.” We start strolling through the town, but my full attention is on her. “Each piece had a story, and I guess, over time, those stories wove their way into my heart. It wasn't just about the past; it was about the connections, the tangible threads to bygone lives. Cambridge felt like a natural extension of that.” Her arm sweeps gently across the view. “How could I not want to be a part of this?”
Her words resonate with me, echoing my own fascination with the layers of stories that make up my small collection.
“And you?” she asks, her tone intrigued. “What made you pursue History of Art?”
It’s hard for me to open up to people, but I try to find a satisfying answer. “I guess I’ve always been drawn to the arts. The level of knowledge you hold about the history of Cambridge and the Victorian Era is something I aspire to.”
“Does your family also collect art?” she asks.
“Mostly my aunt. She’s got a gallery in New York. She’s a big collector in the art scene.”
“Oh, that’s great. And your parents?”