The mist rolled thicker over the Bridge of Whispers, blurring the lines between the living and the forgotten. William Gray shivered as a chill slithered down his spine, the broken front tire of his bike long forgotten. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to run, to forget what he thought he had heard—but curiosity, or perhaps something darker, kept his feet moving forward.
And then… he saw her.
A figure stood in the very center of the bridge, framed by the pale glow of the full moon. The mist curled around her ankles like adoring serpents. Her skin glimmered like freshly fallen snow under moonlight, soft and flawless. Midnight-black hair cascaded down her back in glossy waves, brushing against the gentle curve of her waist. She wore a dress so light it seemed spun from mist itself, clinging to a figure no mortal woman could possess.
She held a single white flower in her hand—delicate, its petals untouched by the damp night air—and raised it to her lips, inhaling its fragrance as though savoring a memory.
William's breath hitched.
He told himself to look away. Charlotte's face, her laughter, her promises of lemon pie and starlit dances flickered in his mind. But his eyes betrayed him.
The woman was impossible.
Otherworldly.
A kind of beauty that didn't belong to this world—the kind men fought wars for, abandoned kingdoms for. He tried to reason with himself. Maybe it's a village girl… lost? A trick of the fog?
But no. No one from Ashgrave looked like this.
As if sensing his gaze, the woman slowly turned her head, and William felt his heart stop.
Her eyes were an unnatural shade—a stormy gray laced with silver, like twin moons drowning in sorrow. Her lips curled into a small, knowing smile. Not cruel. Not kind. Something… in between.
William swallowed hard.
Despite the alarm rising inside him, an inexplicable warmth spread through his chest. A subtle, intoxicating scent reached his nose—elegant, like wild lilies mixed with something richer, more dangerous.
The woman took a step toward him.
Then another.
The sound of her bare feet against the wooden planks was softer than a sigh.
"Good evening," she spoke, her voice a gentle melody, both sweet and sorrowful, laced with a hint of something seductively dark. It was a voice made for lullabies and final confessions.
William's throat tightened.
"I—I didn't mean to disturb—" he stammered, cursing the weakness in his voice.
"You're not disturbing me," she murmured, eyes never leaving his. "It's so rare… to meet someone here, beneath the silver moon."
He tried to avert his gaze, but her presence was magnetic. Every rational thought screamed of danger, yet something primal and buried deep within tugged at him. A strange warmth pooled in his stomach, a longing he couldn't explain, nor had ever felt.
"I… I should go," he managed, though his feet remained rooted.
The woman smiled again, a curve of perfect lips.
"So soon?" she asked, tilting her head, her dark hair cascading like silk. "But you've only just arrived. Stay a while. Walk with me."
Her words weren't a request. They were a command, laced with some unseen power, wrapping around him like a silken noose.
William's heart pounded. Loyalty. Charlotte. Go home.
Yet his hand loosened from the bike's handle. His legs moved forward.
Just one step closer…
The mist around them thickened, the river's gentle lapping replaced by a strange, humming sound. The flower in the woman's hand crumbled to dust, falling in slow motion to the wooden planks.
And still—her smile never wavered.
"Tell me your name, stranger," she whispered, and even in that question, there was danger.
The wind rose, carrying the scent of lavender and ancient grief.
William opened his mouth to answer.
But the shadows at the edges of the bridge stirred…