There stands a bridge in the northern country, a bridge nigh as ancient as the mountains in which it stands, a bridge so high in the mists that it is scarcely real, and it is with this arch from solidity to solidity that our story begins.
It is the dead of an autumn night, the sort of night where the cold seeps into your bones—the cold of dead adventurers' stony graves, hidden deep from the sun's light in the folds of the mountain. Farther down the mountain, below the tree line, the pines rustle softly and nervously where they stand, and even their cousins, the maples and oaks much farther below, hesitate to display their brilliant autumn foliage to decorate the harvest-feasts of the valleys.
But here there are no harvest-feasts, and no lanterns but one, which is held very tightly in the sweaty palm of a young man's hand. He's looking up at the twin pillars of the bridge, shifting from foot to foot, glancing over his shoulders, and biting his lip.
He knows it is the date. He knows it is the hour. He scaled a mountain, and crossed that treacherous bridge, and descended back through the treeline to this silence, this absence of feasting. Something has gone terribly wrong. Or . . . his Facebook friends have punk'd him again.
Opening: Rachel.....Continuation: Anon.