Henry

Henry Wilkins was a man of strict routine. Living at 64 Lancashire Lane in the quiet town of Derby, he shared his small, meticulously kept home with his cat, Kevin. Every morning, like clockwork, Henry would sit down to his bowl of oatmeal, Kevin purring beside him. His life was simple, predictable. He liked it that way. Henry was an accountant by trade, and numbers followed rules—just like he did.

Henry wasn't fond of disruptions. When others didn’t follow the rules—whether it was a person talking too loudly in the library or a cyclist not stopping at a crosswalk—he’d feel a tight knot of frustration in his chest. He’d never say anything, of course. He’d just purse his lips and pedal away on his bike, sticking to his well-worn routes to the post office, the library, and the grocery store. Every Tuesday, he rode to his late mother's house to check for mail for his elderly aunt, who loved quilting. His aunt would smile when he brought her supplies, but Henry’s mind was always on the rules: his mother’s voice echoing in his ears, reminding him to look both ways before crossing, to always whisper in the library.

But there was one stretch of road where Henry let the rules slip. It was just before he reached his aunt's house, under an old covered bridge that dated back to World War II. No one was ever there. The path was surrounded by trees that turned brilliant shades of yellow each autumn, the leaves glowing and shimmering in the golden light of the sun. The path sloped downward sharply as he approached the bridge.

At the top of the hill, Henry could feel his mother’s voice urging caution, but he ignored it. He always did, in this one moment. Leaning forward, he pedaled faster, his wheels catching the wind as he flew down the hill, past the bridge. The breeze rushed past his face, the air cool and crisp, making him feel alive in a way he didn’t feel anywhere else. His heart raced, the wind tugging at his clothes, and for a brief, perfect moment, Henry felt free.

As he emerged from the bridge, the trees rustling around him, Henry would slow down, his mother’s voice settling back in his mind, reminding him to behave, to follow the rules. He would. For the rest of the day, he'd be the same quiet, careful Henry.

But under that old bridge, where the rules didn’t reach, Henry let himself fly.