He looked out of place because he walked slowly up the bridge. He had a slight build even for his mid-twenties Asian frame. In place of a camera to snap pictures, like everyone else, there was a massive bouquet of very expensive flowers in his arms. Maybe it was the explosion is color that caught my eye, amongst a sea of Golden Gate red, and Nautica black windbreakers. But, I don't think so. I was forced to watch this man. All time stopped. Just him and me alone on the bridge. Even though we were alone, he never once noticed or acknowledged me. Like I was a ghost on a bridge.
There was another ghost he was focused upon. As I can't always see ghosts I just asumed this was who he was talking too as he leaned against the rail. He spoke out loud for a minute, but I couldn't hear a word, with me being a ghost and all. He then hurled the massve bouquet of flowers over the edge of the bridge and in a spinning whirl all the tourists appeared again as they gasped and screamed the something had gone over the bridge side. The crowed peared over to watch the falling flowers. I, on the other hand, watched as a human soul went through a catharsis. A cleansing. Only shared unknowingly with me.
Still locked into place, at the base of the south tower, I watch as this person quickly sped down the bridge. He was just a dot in the crowd when I came back to life.