Despite publishing another picture prompt earlier this month, I couldn’t resist highlighting another image from DeviantArt. The first image on this page is Swamp Cottage by Zanariya, a hauntingly beautiful scene soaking in atmosphere and gravitas. As I stared at it, dozens of stories clamored for attention. But I needed a single thread to follow. So, I grabbed my story cubes and gave them a toss. There’s nothing wrong with layering prompts. From the tumble, I selected three elements: the sleeping figure, the bridge, and the sheep. At first, the combination disoriented me. But soon enough, a story emerged, one that perfectly complemented the image’s quiet tension.
Some questions don’t just linger, they haunt you. They’re not idle curiosities but obsessions that whisper in the dark, sparking our imagination and unsettling our hearts. Halwen’s journey begins with one of those questions. But asking isn’t the hard part. It’s the act of stepping forward, of crossing a threshold you may never come back from. Sometimes, truth is a gift. Sometimes, it’s a curse. This tale doesn’t claim which is it. It simply asks the question. What are you willing to give up for certainty? And can you bear the weight of the answer?
This is a story about that final breath before knocking on a door you can’t un-open. About the price we don’t expect to pay. And about how even the smallest things, like a shadow, can mean far more than we realize. If you’ve ever felt haunted by the unknown, or caught between what is and what might be, then step carefully. The bridge remembers.
As the first raindrop struck her cheek, Halwen flinched and yanked her foot from the rickety bridge. The forest roared as the wind whipped past, carving furrows in the water’s surface. The rippling water hinted at hidden life in the depths clinging to secrets best forgotten.
She withdrew a small book from her bag and read the initial lines.
If you desire answers that no soul can provide, there’s a single option. Tread where no soul dares and awaken the sleeper in the swamp.
With a sigh, she returned the book and looked past the bridge. Halwen studied the dull green sky behind the treetops, the result of something alien casting the world in an unnatural haze. Pulses of intense light ripped through the clouds overhead, though no sound reached her ears. Beneath the alien light, the crooked cottage slouched against the trees beyond the far side of the water. Halwen’s hand hovered near her chest, as if stilling her breath might quiet thoughts louder than the rain.
The structure was half swallowed by moss and forgotten by time. Its warped tiles glistened with the storm’s touch while the windows flickered with light. When she put her foot on the bridge, the rope snarled, the wood whined as her boot settled upon it. Beneath her partial weight, the plank sagged enough to whisper a vital question.
Are you sure you want to cross?
Halwen pulled her cloak about her shoulder as she released her breath and stepped onto the bridge. Another gust tore through the swamp as more rain splashed against her face. Branches creaked like ancient bones as death and decay overwhelmed her in time with a clap of thunder. Despite the rain intensifying, Halwen forced herself onward. By the time she reached the halfway point, she paused and peered over the railing. As she studied the ripples from the rain, the bridge moaned like a giant straining to keep its burden aloft.
The rope rails strained, half-severed in places. Below, the black swamp water stirred lazily, reflecting the leaning cottage at the bridge’s end. Her tongue ran over dry lips. One hand gathered her hair, the other dropped to the hilt at her side. A barely held breath preceded her single backward glance. Then, without another thought, she walked forward, ignoring the downpour and the moss-slicked planks.
When her foot touched the distant shore, she ran to the building and marched up the stairs. The door hung open as if it had been expecting her arrival. She peered through the opening, studying the contents. In the dim light, a kettle perched on the hearth’s fire. Beyond the touch of courtesy, vines curled up along the walls, racing toward the ceiling.
Across from the hearth there was a bed of twisted reeds, with a slumbering figure resting upon it. This strange figure was neither young nor old, just still. The hands folded upon the figure’s chest, with dried hair as vibrant as river grass. The individual’s breath came slow and steady, barely lifting the blanket that clung to the body.
Halwen rose and wrapped her fingers around the door. As she was about to open it, she released the wooden slab when she saw the creature standing vigil over the figure, a sheep. Its faintly glowing eyes stared through her, while the wool felt like an undulating fog. It didn’t bleat or back away. It simply stared. Halwen held its gaze for what felt like an eternity. She licked her lips as she opened the door and stepped inside. “I need answers. I was told the sleeper knows all.”
Silence answered her question. After several seconds, the sheep blinked in unison with the sleeper’s inhalation. The movement was subtle, but powerful. Like the world taking notice. A harsh voice filled the cabin as the still figure opened pale eyes. “You’ve crossed the bridge. Most refuse.”
“I didn’t come for stories,” Halwen said, “I’m here for truth.”
A weary, disappointed look crossed the sleeper’s face as it turned toward Halwen. “Truth always comes at a price.”
“I’m willing to pay it.”
“Everyone recites that claim.” The sleeper sat up with slow and deliberate motions, fingers brushing the sheep’s wool. “What do you seek?”
Halwen chewed her lips for a second before stepping forward. “My brother vanished two winters ago. He left behind nothing except a letter letting us know he was ‘unmaking’ himself. He’s my brother, and his disappearance is tearing my family apart. I came to find out whether he’s still alive or gone. Either way, it’ll provide us with closure.”
The sleeper’s expression didn’t change, but the air shifted. “Unmaking is not death. Though it’s a path that excludes a return.”
“Does that mean he’s alive?”
“In part,” the sleeper said, brushing the sheep’s wool.
Halwen pressed her hand to her stomach as she gripped her forehead. “What does that mean?”
“I can show you what remains of him,” the sleeper continued. “But you will lose something in return.”
“What?” Halwen asked, a tear tracing her pale cheek.
The sleeper pointed at her shadow. “This is the necessary price to attain your answer.”
Halwen looked down, her shadow clinging to her boots, but flickering at its edges, as if screaming in protest at the hidden cost. With a hesitant breath, her brother’s words flared from a long-forgotten memory.
A person’s shadow was their proof they belonged in the world.
She blinked the memory away, then closed her eyes. “Then take my shadow.”
The sleeper’s head shook, but he still reached forward, pressing a finger to Halwen’s forehead. A spark passed between them. As she shivered, a mournful bleat from the sheep hinted at the dire cost of the transaction. Then the sleeper lay back down, falling back asleep. “The bridge will show you the rest.”
Halwen turned toward the door as a fresh silence consumed them. Outside, the bridge waited, unchanged, yet no longer the same, ready to carry her into what remained and the promised answers.