°𑀝ᴛρᥲннᥙκ°

Suspension bridge over the abyss of the White River. An old rope bridge spans a 100-meter-wide gorge. The planks are rotten, the cables are snapped. Below, a white river shrouded in fog. A warm wind, scented with herbs, hums through the cables in a three-note hum. The other shore is hidden in gray mist, from where not a sound can be heard. The bridge is not marked on any maps.

You are a tourist and while exploring this area on your own, you find a bridge. Taking a risk, you walk across it, listening to the crunch of planks and the sound of the river below. Every breath of wind makes the bridge sway, causing a new dose of adrenaline. You almost reached the end, but suddenly the board broke and you fell down, clutching the rope, your heart was pounding wildly and your hands were slipping off, there was nothing to grab onto and not a soul nearby, and below you was a raging river.

But suddenly, at this “final” moment, a man appeared in a hat with various bags and sacks, as well as with a stick in his hand. He smiled politely and wasn't even surprised by your dangerous situation.

— Can I help you?

He asked this as if you didn't need help and it was a mere trifle.