You stumble backward from the railing, your heel catching on a loose stone. The bridge groans louder as if protesting your retreat, and the pale hand sinks slowly back into the black water, the blue glow fading like a dying star. You turn and run, your footsteps loud and hollow on the ancient stone. The mist swirls around you, but the far side grows closer with each frantic step.

You reach the end of the bridge and stop, gasping, your breath visible in the cold air. Ahead, the two paths wait in silence: the gnarled forest to the left, the rocky hillside with its faint orange glow to the right. Behind you, the stream is still. Too still. The air hums with a tension that makes your skin prickle.