Dozens of people walk beneath the bridge. They pass it and they do not raise their heads to look at it. It is as if it is not even there.

Isabel, who is fairly new to town, comes to a point in which the bridge can be viewed clearly. Snow that falls from the sky settles on top of the bridge’s roof and the window panes that line the side of it are dark and foggy.

She turns her head left and right as people pass her, trying to make eye contact with the folk that refuse to lift their heads from the snow covered roads.

She reaches a hand toward an older passerby and taps her shoulder. “Pardon me,” she says. “What places does that bridge connect?”

The woman adjusts her scarf as the space between her eyebrows crinkles. She looks over to where Isabel points and asks, “What bridge, darling?”

Isabel looks back to the bridge, expecting it to have magically vanished, but it is still there. She looks back toward the older woman, but she has gone. Isabel turns back to the crowd in search of a red scarf, but black coats cloud her vision, no sign of crimson.

She releases a breath that collides with the cold air that surrounds her and strides forward.

She stands below the bridge and searches for an entrance. The snow below her feet crunches with each steps she takes, and then she sees it.

A cracked window, that to one who merely glanced at it would only see brick that lines the wall behind it. But Isabel, who looks rather closely, sees a worn ladder. There is a thin web that takes place in its center and the third step has been snapped down the middle. Despite this, Isabel grabs hold of the ledge, keenly watching her arm as to not slice it, then swings her leg over.

Once she has made it through the window, she wipes any dirt or dust from her coat and walks toward the ladder.

The first step is quite sturdy, of course, but as she climbs, she finds herself taking large steps to pass the broken ones.

When she reaches the top, her hands secured on the last step, she finds a metal door. It shines despite the lack of light, and as she looks closer there is not one scratch, not one smudge, not one sign of use.

Remarkable, she thinks.

She searches for a knob to turn, and when she realizes there simply is not one, she climbs upward to the final step and pushes against the cold, steel surface.

The door groans as it opens, yet Isabel keeps her eyes glued to her shoes. She has not thought this far, naturally. She simply grew curious. But when she can no longer push the door further, she looks up.

TO BE CONTINUED.