Leo looked down at the missing planks, the dark water. He could turn back. He could go home to his damp apartment, his stack of old films, his life of quiet forgetting. Or he could take one step, then another, into the groaning dark.
“Don’t,” Leo said, but the girl was already stepping onto the first plank. It held. He followed, against every instinct. Baskin
She looked up. Her eyes were the color of the harbor before a storm. “I’m looking for the Singing Bridge,” she said. Her voice was too steady for a child alone in the rain. Leo looked down at the missing planks, the dark water