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The night was young, the full moon hung above, lighting the way. Over an old bridge that creaked, plants grew out of the wood, vines climbed over it, dirt made the old rotting wood its’ home. The dirt road was almost gone, trampled by fallen leaves, grass grew covering up the road.
He stared at the bridge, his bottom lip quivered, the last time he was here the bridge was gone, in the river, along with a car. He was in his twenties then, and now? His nineties. He hobbled over, using his cane, fixing the tie on his fancy old shirt, it still fit after all these years.
His aged hands ran over the old wood, he dug a finger into it, hearing it split. He shrugged, wobbling over the bridge, holding onto the railing. His eyes not once leaving the river below. -
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