On a foggy coastal road, there was an old bridge no one dared cross after midnight. Locals said it “slept” during the day but awakened at night to claim the souls of those who disturbed it.
Tom, a skeptical journalist, decided to spend the night there. At exactly midnight, he heard the sound of footsteps and whispers beneath the bridge. The air thickened; shadows moved like liquid.
The climax: Tom realized the bridge was built over the graves of lost travelers, and its “sleep” was a fragile truce. He fled at dawn, his camera recording the faces of the dead beneath the mist—proof he could never show anyone.
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