The mist breathed.
Not like a storm, not like steam from a kettle, more like the slow rise and fall of a sleeping chest. It gathered along the planks and curled around my ankles, then drew back again as if tasting the air and thinking about what I might be.
The page warmed in my hand. Its light was not bright. It was steady, the way a small lamp is steady in a room that knows night very well. The letters on its face did not hold still for long. They drifted, settled, and drifted again, like silt in a jar of water when you keep it on the windowsill and watch it forget to be still.
Behind me, the footsteps in the mist matched my pace.
I stopped.
They stopped.
I took a single step.
They took one too, the exact distance, the exact weight.
"Who is there," I asked, and my voice did not carry far. The mist took it and laid it down a few paces away, as if it did not want sound to travel without permission.
No answer came.
Only the wood of the bridge speaking in a soft groan that was not complaint, more like memory.
I did not turn. The page warmed once more, and the letters arranged themselves into a thin line.
Do not look back yet.
"Why," I whispered.
The letters dissolved, then came together again.
The bridge is listening. Let it decide if you may pass.
The lanterns far below were so small that they could have been fireflies. They swayed in currents I could not feel, making small constellations that formed, broke apart, and formed again. The bridge stretched into the mist in a straight line, but the sense of distance here was unreliable. Sometimes the next plank felt a breath away. Sometimes it felt as far as the horizon on a hot day.
I took another step.
The footsteps behind me did the same, then paused half a heartbeat later, the way an echo pauses when the room is unsure of its own shape.
"Are you mine," I asked the echo without turning, "or are you not."
Something shifted at the edge of hearing. Wood creaked. A very light, very careful breath answered, not from behind, but from under the rail to my left. I glanced down.
A small figure crouched in the mist at the lip of the bridge, half tucked into the gap where plank met rail. The shape was the size of a child. Not the child from the stair, not exactly. This one's skin held the quiet sheen of paper that has been handled with clean hands for many years. Its hair, if it could be called that, was made of threads so fine they looked like lines from a pencil run lightly over the page.
It peered up at me with eyes that did not reflect lantern light. The eyes were soft graphite, calm and curious.
"Do not step on the fourth plank ahead," it said, in a voice polite enough that the bridge did not mind hearing it. "The fourth plank will imagine itself missing, and when a thing imagines itself missing for long enough, it becomes true."
I looked.
The mist hid the next span of the bridge. I could see three planks for certain. The fourth was an idea more than a shape.
"Thank you," I said.
"You are welcome," the figure said. "The bridge likes a thank you."
It remained where it was, fingers hooked lightly into the seam by the rail, eyes on my hand. I lifted the page a little, and the figure blinked once, as if a small bell had sounded in a library that did not want bells.
"Is that a page," it asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Is it this bridge's page," it asked.
"I do not know," I said.
The figure nodded. That answer seemed acceptable.
Behind me, the echo steps resumed. They were closer now, not threatening, only careful. The mist was not thick enough to hide something large. Whatever followed me wore the size and weight of a single person, or the idea of one.
I stepped over the place the fourth plank would have been, and I did not fall. The bridge gave a little to let me pass, the way a friend leans back to make room for a second person on a narrow bench. When my foot found the fifth plank, the mist on it ran away like water from oil. The wood shone for a moment, clean and pale, then the sheen dulled and the mist returned.
"How long is this bridge," I asked the small figure.
"As long as it needs to be," it said, with simple confidence. "Not one plank longer."
"What happens if you hurry," I asked.
"It grows impatient," the figure said. "It skips a plank. Then it forgets to replace it. The lanterns below do not like that."
"Why," I asked.
"They like order," the figure said. "And because they have been made to hold what should be held, it feels unfair to them when the bridge loses count."
It slipped its fingers free of the seam, stood, and moved along the rail with the casual balance of something that had grown in a place without wind. It stopped beside my elbow and looked up.
"Do you have a name," it asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Will you tell it to me," it asked.
"Not yet," I said.
"That is wise," the figure said, and did not ask again.
We walked together. The echo steps behind us kept their distance, neither shy nor bold, only constant.
"Are you a child," I asked, after a time that might have been a minute or an hour.
"In some places," the figure said. "In others, I am a note in the back of a book that was never read. In others, I am a fold that was made to mark a page and then forgotten."
"Here," I said, "what are you."
It thought, if a face made from graphite and paper can be said to think in the same ways faces made from bone think.
"Here," it said, "I am a companion if asked. The bridge prefers that when someone crosses with a page in their hand, they do not cross alone."
I looked at the page. The letters were steady now. The warmth was steady too. I lifted it a little so the figure could see more clearly.
"May I read it," it asked.
"No," I said, and the page warmed in approval.
"That is also wise," the figure said.
The mist thinned enough to show a bend that was not a bend. The bridge continued in a straight line, but the world around it turned, slow and measured, until the lanterns far below stood to my right where they had been to my left. The echo steps gave a small, surprised sound at the shift. It was the kind of sound someone makes when a familiar room has been moved while they were not looking.
"Will the bridge ask for a toll," I asked.
"It already did," the figure said.
"When," I asked.
"When you said thank you," it said, with a hint of pride, as if it had helped me pass a test.
We came to a plank that had three lines scratched into it. They were not deep. They were not even neat. They looked like someone had tried to teach the wood a song and the wood had been polite enough to listen, but not enough to remember the tune.
"What is this one," I asked.
"A count," the figure said softly. "Someone crossed in a hurry and tried to keep track. They forgot how to count carefully. The bridge did not like the way the numbers felt. It kept the lines anyway."
"Why," I asked.
"Because it is kind," the figure said.
Behind us, the echo steps came closer. Not so close that they were at my back. Close enough that I could hear breath now, light and steady. I kept my gaze forward.
"I hear you," I said, not unkindly. "Walk with us if you would like. I will not look at you yet."
The breath behind me paused, then resumed, keeping to the same distance as before.
The mist parted and showed, for a moment, a tall shape at the limits of sight. A door, perhaps. Not tall like the carved door that breathed, but tall enough to matter. The view closed again before I could be certain.
"How do I know which planks to avoid," I asked.
"The bridge will tell you," the figure said. "It always does. People do not always listen."
I listened.
The wood began to speak under my feet in a language I could not translate, a language of small sounds and smaller shifts, of welcome and warning. The second plank after the one with three lines hummed a little too high. I stepped over it. The figure nodded, pleased.
The page warmed, then the letters wrote themselves into a sentence I could not ignore.
When the bridge asks a question, answer with a memory you can afford to lose.
I almost stopped. "What does that mean," I asked the figure.
"It means do not answer with a memory you are trying to hold tight," it said. "If you give it a memory you truly need, the bridge will keep it safe, but it will not return it to you. Not unless this path becomes a path you walk many times, and it prefers not to be walked many times."
"What kinds of memories does it like," I asked.
"Small ones," the figure said. "A smell from a morning you do not remember for any other reason. The feeling of a stone in your shoe on a day when nothing else happened. A song you hummed once and forgot you hummed. The bridge likes those."
A plank ahead lifted very slightly, and a question ran through the wood like a soft chord.
Who goes, and why.
I understood it without words. My chest answered before my mouth did.
"I am the person who holds a page I do not yet deserve," I said. "I am crossing to learn how to deserve it. I am crossing because if I do not, something that should not drift will drift away."
The plank settled.
A second voice in the wood, higher and thin, asked another question.
What will you share.
The small figure touched my wrist with a finger as light as a pencil tip. "A small one," it said. "Choose a small one."
I chose.
A morning long before the coastline had gone. A kettle that clicked and did not sing because I had not turned the knob all the way. I had laughed once under my breath at my own mistake before I fixed it. A tiny laugh, a breath more than a sound. I offered that laugh.
The plank drank it. The bridge hummed in quiet approval. The echo steps behind me gave a soft exhale, as if relieved.
We walked.
The mist thinned again. The tall shape at the far end returned, closer now. It was a door, simple and dark, set into a frame of plain wood. No carvings. No light. Only a handle the color of old coins.
"Is that the way through," I asked.
"It is the way the bridge is willing to give you," the figure said. "Sometimes there are other ways. The bridge likes this one for you."
"Does it lead back," I asked.
"It leads onward," the figure said.
The echo steps closed the last of the distance. I did not turn. The breath at my back was calm. It felt like standing beside a shelf that holds a book you love and have not opened in years.
"You can walk beside me," I said, and something shifted at my shoulder, quiet and sure, as if a second person had stepped into place beside me without touching.
"Do you know them," the figure asked.
"Not yet," I said.
"Would you like to," it asked.
"Yes," I said, "but not now. The bridge is still listening."
The page grew warmer. The letters formed three lines, slow and exact.
At the door, ask once.
If it does not answer, ask again.
If it answers, do not ask a third time.
"What will it answer," I asked.
"The part you are not ready to hear," the figure said. "The bridge believes in gentle truths. Doors do not always agree."
We reached the last length. The planks here were smoother, as if many careful feet had crossed without rushing, without sorrow. The mist hung low and did not rise above our knees. The lanterns below gathered in a rough circle that turned slowly, like a clock that had decided time was not a straight line after all.
The door waited.
I stopped before it and set my palm lightly against the wood. It was cool. It did not breathe. It did not pretend. It was a door the way a door is when it has a job and would like to finish it without drama.
I asked.
"Where do you lead," I said.
The door was silent.
I asked again.
"What will I be when I step through," I said.
The door answered, not with sound, but with a weight in my hand. The page grew very warm, then very light, as if the ink itself had thinned. The letters wrote themselves into a thin curve, not quite a word.
Ready.
I did not ask a third time.
I took the handle.
"Will you come," I asked the small figure.
"I cannot," it said. "I am the part of the bridge that keeps company."
"Thank you," I said.
"You are welcome," it said, and I felt the bridge smile through the wood, a tiny easing of knots, a soft release of something that had been held too tight.
I looked at the presence at my shoulder, the one I had not turned to see. I did not turn now. I felt them lean almost imperceptibly closer, as if to give me a courage I already had.
"I will see you beyond," I said.
They did not answer. They did not need to.
I opened the door.
There was no push of air, no change of temperature, no dramatic step from one color of light to another. There was only a small shift in weight, as if the page had become a little lighter, and the ribbon at my wrist had remembered that it was also a promise.
The room beyond was narrow and tall, like a book stood on its end. The walls were made from shelves, but the shelves were empty. Not dusted bare. Not unused. Empty the way a bowl is empty when it has been cleaned and placed in the cupboard for the next meal.
In the middle of the floor, a table stood with two chairs. On the table sat a single object.
A bell.
Small.
Plain.
The color of coins that have passed through many hands.
The page in my hand cooled. The letters arranged themselves in a single line.
Do not ring it.
I did not move closer. I did not move away. I listened.
There was no breath in the room. There was no hum. There was only the bell sitting quietly the way a stone sits, happy to be a stone.
At my back, the door clicked once, the sound of a latch asking if it could rest.
I walked around the table without touching the bell and stood at the far chair. It faced a narrow window cut high in the wall. The window did not show the lanterns or the mist. It showed a slice of sky that did not belong to the world above the stairs. The sky was a soft green, the color you see on the inside of an apple when you slice it cleanly and hold it to the light. The color changed when I blinked, not to blue, not to gold, but to the exact shade of water in a glass on a desk when the sun passes behind a cloud.
The echo presence stepped into the room at last. I did not turn. I felt the chair across from me accept a small weight, the way a chair accepts a guest who has not decided if they are welcome.
"I will ask one thing," I said softly, not to the bell, not to the window, not even to the page. "Are you here to help me carry this."
A hand I could not see touched the edge of the table. The touch was careful, as if the table were made of a thinner glass than the book I kept under my arm. The air agreed that the answer was yes.
The page wrote three more words.
Ask the window.
I lifted the chair a fraction and sat. I set the page on the table and set my palm lightly over it, as if to keep it from floating away. The window waited without impatience.
"What do you remember," I asked it.
The green shifted. A pattern came into focus, thin and bright. Bridges, not of glass, not of light, but of lines that remembered where a foot had fallen and where it had not. The bridges were not where they should be. They were folded. They were placed one above the other, the way you might place paper on a desk when you are trying to make room for a cup.
"Can they be unfolded," I asked.
The color deepened. A small circle appeared in the corner of the window, the size of a coin. In the circle, I saw a room I knew too well. The desk. The lamp. The small light that asked for approval without speaking. I saw the shelf marked Bridges lift half a finger's width. I saw the seams between spines loosen, not enough to fall, enough to breathe.
The bell on the table did not move. It made itself smaller, or perhaps I decided not to notice it at all.
The page wrote again.
If you leave this room with me, the bridge will stop listening. If you stay until the window shows you the second circle, the bridge will hear you again when you return.
"How long," I asked. "How long does a second circle take."
The window did not say. The color changed once, then again, the way a thought changes when it discovers it has two shapes and must choose one.
The presence across from me placed something very light on the table. I could not see it. I could feel the weight the way you feel the weight of a word you are about to say.
"Can I trust you," I asked, not looking up from the page.
The weight answered by remaining exactly where it was. That was the correct answer.
The window brightened.
A second circle began to form, very faint at first, like a coin traced around with a dull pencil. It darkened at the edges, softened in the center, and showed water that was not black, and a skyline that was not gone, and a curve that might have been a crown that had remembered how to be a bridge.
Something far away rang, not this bell, not any bell in this room, a bell I knew well from a city that sings to keep itself standing. The sound reached the room without crossing the air. It arrived the way a story arrives, because someone is ready to listen.
The page warmed.
The second circle steadied.
The door behind me opened a finger's width without my asking. The bridge beyond rested, content with its count.
I stood and picked up the page.
I did not touch the bell.
I did not ask the room for a third answer.
"Come with me," I said to the presence across from me.
They rose. The chair accepted the change without a sound. The door waited for my hand.
I stepped back onto the bridge, and the mist gathered, pleased that I had returned the way I had left.
The small figure was there at the rail once more. It raised a hand the way a child raises a hand when the teacher says a thing worth writing down.
"Do you know the way," it asked.
"I think the way knows me," I said.
"That is enough," it said, and it smiled with a mouth that had been drawn with a soft pencil and a steady hand.
We walked together, the three of us, until the bridge's last plank offered itself like a final page, and the lanterns below drew themselves into a circle that did not fall apart, and the mist parted just enough to show a stair made of light the color of apples and water and the memory of clean stone.
The bridge hummed once, proud of its own work.
And I began to climb.