You lean over the stone railing and peer into the black water. At first, you see only your own reflection—pale, wavering, as if it belongs to a stranger. Then the reflection shifts, and a face rises beneath the surface: a woman's face, ancient and sorrowful, her eyes closed as if in eternal sleep. Her lips part, and a single word ripples up to you—indistinct, like a half-forgotten lullaby.

The water trembles, and the face dissolves into ripples. From the depths, a pale hand rises, clutching something that glows with a faint blue light. The hand does not grasp toward you; it simply holds the object aloft, as if offering it. The bridge groans softly beneath your feet, and the mist thickens again, carrying the scent of wet stone and decay.