The bridge is wooden, risking rot. He wanders across in fading, fogthick twilight. He is alone, chilled from his head to his heart to his bones. Mist pressing down. As he continues, the lamps along the bridge dim away, their glow lost beneath the heavy shroud. He’s taken this path nightly and he doesn’t know any safer. In the grey around him, wordless orators begin their call, convincing in their atavistic authority. He looks down into the waters, holding the twin gaze of doubt and dread.