One True Sound

You are walking home to Ferndel after years away, and the short way is the old toll-bridge over the Elmwater, deep in the beech forest. The path is soft with moss and quieter than any road has a right to be, as if the trees are holding their breath for you. Ahead, through the green, the bridge stands with its span raised — and it has been raised, they say in the low villages, for years. The keeper still waits there. Nobody remembers the last person who paid whatever it is he asks.