December 21, 2012 – Old Acorus Park,  New Babylon – 4:00 PM

I  stood on the Pink Bridge.

It wasn’t pink. Just a name someone gave it ages ago—the kind that sticks, even if no one remembers why. Maybe it was my dad who told me that. Maybe I made it up.

I don’t remember anymore. 

Either way, I liked that it had a name. Names make things real.

The bridge wasn’t much. Two shaky planks stretched over a thin stream that called itself a river. No rails. No signs. Just enough wood to dare you across. On either side, two little hills slouched under trees, separated like the parted palms of hands that had once joined but had to let go.

The afternoon air bit at my cheeks, cold enough to turn my breath into small clouds. I exhaled slowly, watching the haze drift before me, dissolving into nothingness. Then I dropped my Hello Kitty backpack—the same one I’d had since first grade, patched up with tape and marker doodles, and dug around inside.

My fingers found a crumpled sheet of red paper, soft at the edges from too many folds. Then I sat down in the middle of the bridge and began my craft. 

Crease, turn, fold. Crease, turn, fold. There was something steady in that rhythm. When I finished, I held up the boat—my best one yet—and let the fading light illuminate my masterpiece.

If I were small enough, I would’ve climbed inside, sailing it on my own instead of watching it drift from the bridge. I looked downstream. Far below the hill, past the sleepy trees of the park, the river curved toward the darkening horizon—toward the Endless Sea. 

Yes, that’s what I wanted. 

To let the river carry me all the way down, past the park and the temple, past the harbor at the edge of town, to the sea. 

And then that feeling came, that ache. A quiet kind. It settled in my chest as I remembered the truth: 

I wasn’t small enough.

But back to my boat. It was a thing of beauty, really. A tiny, delicate little miracle, made by my hands. Made to carry something important away. 

From my backpack, I pulled out a black Sharpie—cap chewed, ink running low—and pressed it to the side of the boat. In tiny, pretty letters, I wrote: ‘The Pearl of the Blue.’

Underneath it, I added my initials: MS. Molly Sparrow.

So, if someone ever found it, out there in the sea, or maybe someplace else, they’d know who it belonged to. Who gave it away. 

The voyage didn’t go the way I’d hoped.

It was supposed to be perfect—a quiet goodbye, a clean launch. But the boat didn’t even make it five feet before it got stuck on a stupid branch. I climbed down from the Pink Bridge and stood at the edge of the stream, trying to stretch my arm far enough to grab the stick. 

My fingers skimmed the water. Almost. Not quite. I tried again. And again. One more almost, and I nearly slipped in completely. The water looked like it had frostbite. So I gave up. Sat down in the mud and stared at the poor little boat, caught in a swirl just out of reach. The water spun it slowly, like it was trying to decide whether to let it go.

That’s when I got my genius idea.

I kicked off my yellow boo—the left one, the one with the smiley face sticker that never quite came off—and stretched my leg out over the water. One last chance. All or nothing.

And I got it.

I pinched the stick between my toes and yanked it back. The branch came loose, the boat twitched, and then—just like that—it was free. Off it went, sailing again like it never got stuck at all.

I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt. Then I realized I was freezing. My sock was soggy, my fingers were red, and I couldn’t feel my ears.

I shoved my boot back on and pulled my wool hat down until it nearly covered my eyes. As I stood up, I noticed this old couple staring at me like I was some weird little statue, part of the scenery. 

I stuck my tongue out at them.

Then I ran back up to the bridge. My Hello Kitty backpack was still there, waiting for me, like it knew I’d be back.

Then it hit me. I’d told Ethan I’d be back in a minute.

I bolted. 

The path through Old Acorus twisted under my feet—damp leaves slick from last night’s rain, tree roots curling out like they were trying to trip me. The cold wind was slicing through my coat and stinging my cheeks. My breath came in little white bursts, my red curls streamed behind me like fire unraveling from my head.

I could see the hill up ahead—the patch of grass we’d claimed as our own, right at the edge of the park. The oak tree we always sat under was crooked and knotted, its bare branches scratching at the sky.

And there he was: My big brother Ethan, exactly where I left him.

He was tucked under the tree, coat open like he didn’t even feel the cold, back against the bark, knees drawn up just enough to balance the hardcover brick of a book resting across them. His glasses—always a little too big—had slid down to the tip of his nose, and his eyes flicked left to right, fast and focused. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look up.

Didn’t notice me at all.

I collapsed next to him, almost dying, gasping for air, heart doing drum solos in my chest.

Ethan turned a page.

“Why are you panting like a dog?” he said, still not looking.

I rolled over onto my back, still wheezing.

“I saved the boat,” I said between gulps of air. “It was stuck, and I saved it. With my toes.”

“Congratulations,” Ethan muttered, still reading.

“I think it’s gone to the Endless Sea,” I said quietly.

He didn’t answer. But I saw him glance up again, just for a second—like maybe he believed it too.

Then, out of nowhere, I was struck by the urge to run away from home. Not far. Just to the Pink Bridge. I’d live underneath it, become a troll, demanding a symbolic toll from anyone who crossed. The bridge was too small for a troll, but I didn’t care.

We stayed there for a while, not saying a word, just breathing. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty. Above us, the clouds began to blend—purples and grays folding into one another, as if the sky were pulling up its blanket for the night.

It was going to rain that night.

“All right,” Ethan sighed. “We need to go. Dad’ll be angry if we’re late.”

“Are we watching a movie tonight?” I asked, hopefully, as I helped him up. He brushed himself off, grass stains blooming green on his knees.

“I need to study,” he said. “And don’t give me that look—it’s a school night. Are you even done with your homework?”

I started smiling. That slow, devilish kind of smile. The one who said, ‘Of course not, and you already knew that.’

We left the park together—well, he walked. I skipped-hopped across the gravel path, leaping over puddles like a champion. Then down the railway, through the shortcut alleys and side streets, back toward our neighborhood. 

The first raindrop hit my shoulder. The second one tried too, but I was quicker— I yanked my umbrella from my backpack, yellow and speckled with tiny banana cartoons, and ducked beneath it. Ethan’s was plain black, of course.

The drizzle turned into a downpour. The street shimmered under it, empty except for us. Or at least, it felt empty. Like the world had slipped into another layer—just me and Ethan and the hush of falling water.

I paused for a second, tilted my head back, and let the cold drops tap against my cheeks. They ran down to my collarbones and disappeared under my scarf. Somewhere nearby, the water trickled back into the stream—maybe the same stream from the Pink Bridge, maybe a different one. It didn’t matter. It sounded the same.

That feeling came back. Quiet, slow. Like the moment between breathing in and breathing out.

Ethan glanced sideways at me, then smirked and started to recite:

“Molly Sparrow’s
Boat on the narrows
Into the sea she goes,
Molly-poly-oly!”

I stared at him in outrage. “That doesn’t even rhyme!”

But he just smiled.

It was a fifteen-minute walk home from where the railway dropped us, sometimes twenty on rainy days like this one. I tried to find a clever way to hold my umbrella while still hugging myself tightly, but my arms got tangled. I looked ridiculous.

As usual, I regretted going out in the cold. I knew the rules. If I went to bed chilled, the chances of sleepwalking would go up. I always told myself I’d be careful. But Ethan said he wanted to go to the park, and I wanted to go with him.

That rainy day... I remember every moment of it. Ethan was nineteen. I was only eight. That rainy day, down by the pink bridge.

And then came the night.

Strands of auburn hair kept slipping out from under my wool hat. I pushed them back, stubbornly, again and again. We passed a big green trash bin, the kind that always smelled faintly like metal and soup. A piece of cardboard was propped against it, and beneath it, a cat was hiding—eyes glowing in the final lights of the day, curled in a little loaf of survival.

I had never been allowed to adopt a pet. I wondered what life with a cat might be like. Then I thought about a cookie I once ate. My thoughts wandered the way they always did, one idea tumbling over another, until…

I bumped into someone. I stumbled back, my umbrella tilting sideways as I gasped.

There was a sharp, sour scent—it burned in my nose like smoke and rust and something I wasn’t old enough to name.

The man before me looked like the kind of person the world forgot on purpose. Bearded, filthy. Even the rain seemed to avoid him. His hair was crammed beneath a threadbare knit cap, and his grayish-green coat hung on him like it didn’t want to be there either. In his hands, he clutched a newspaper so soaked it peeled apart like dead leaves—no way anyone could read it now.

He stared at me, dazed—and then something in his face lit up, like lightning behind clouds. Sudden. Feverish.

“Oh, heavens above, to witness—no, to collide!” he muttered, his voice ragged, teeth dark and crumbling. He took a step toward me, speaking louder now—so loud the rain couldn’t drown him out.

“Sir, we don’t have any money,” Ethan said sharply, already stepping between us.

But the man shook his head violently. “No! You have to listen! He took our memory, but HE can’t take our eyes! WE SEE. I see you. And you will see all of us… You’ll kill all of us.”

His hand shot out and grabbed me.

Ethan yelled. I think he tried to hit him, maybe pull him away—I don’t remember the words, just my brother’s tone, high and wild and scared.

But I remember the man’s words.

“The day of Judgment is near,” he growled, shaking, “but no, you won’t judge us. Nor the false prophets.

It will be the Earth. Yes... The earth will rise from its bed, from its grave of blood… It will swallow us whole. Wrath of infinity. Like thousands of mortars of spite…”

His grip tightened. His face was inches from mine.

“You… you hear Him, don’t you, Tangerine?”

My breath caught. The world tilted.

He turned, suddenly, looking toward the bushes like something had whispered there.

“They’re watching us,” he hissed. “Every shadowed corner. Talons. Paws. Cursorials.

They’re there.

Waiting for you.

Waiting for you to stand at the highest place…”

His voice unraveled. And then, just as suddenly, he stopped. A faraway look spread across his face, soft and strange, like someone switching off. He let go, turned, and walked away, as the rain kept falling. Ethan grabbed my hand. Neither of us spoke. 

We ran the rest of the way home.