He wanders the bridge in fading, fogthick twilight. Wooden, risking rot. He’s taken this path nightly and he doesn’t know any safer. Mist pressing down, he is chilled from his head to his heart to his bones. The lamps along the bridge dim away, their glow lost beneath the heavy shroud. He is alone. Wordless orators begin their call, convincing in their atavistic authority. He looks into the waters, where doubt and dread cling.