The Bridge That Dreamed of a Troll

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Under the emerald canopy where sunlight filtered through the leaves like molten jade, a small stone bridge arched over a whispering stream. It had stood there for centuries, its stones slick with moss and memory. Travelers once crossed it, singing songs and carrying baskets of bread, but now only the deer and foxes knew its presence. Yet, the bridge waited—for it had once been home to a troll.

His name was Bruk. Long ago, Bruk had lived beneath the bridge, sleeping in the hollow where the water echoed like a heartbeat. He was not the kind of troll that ate goats or frightened children. He collected echoes, whispers, and the soft hum of the forest. Every sound that touched his stone home became part of his dreams.

But time is cruel to all things that live quietly. When the old road was abandoned, the bridge forgot the rhythm of footsteps, and Bruk forgot what it meant to belong. The moss grew thick, and the silence—once his friend—became heavy. One misty dawn, he rose from his bed of wet leaves and decided to search for a new home.

He wandered through deep ravines and up shadowed hills. He found iron bridges where cars roared overhead, but the metal had no patience for his kind. He crouched under train trestles, but the noise was too sharp—it cut through his thoughts like knives. He tried to sleep in culverts and storm drains, but there were no stars to hum him to sleep. Everywhere he went, the water tasted wrong.

After many seasons, Bruk returned to the forest of his youth. The old bridge was still there, its arch framed by ferns and moss. When he stepped beneath it, the air shimmered. The stream recognized him and began to sing. The stones remembered the shape of his hands. He sat down in the green light and sighed—a sound that rippled through the forest like wind through reeds.

And the bridge, which had dreamed of him every night since he left, answered with a low, contented groan.

Now, when twilight falls and the water glows like liquid glass, you can sometimes see a shape beneath the arch—something large and still, listening to the forest breathe. Bruk does not leave anymore. He knows that bridges and trolls are made of the same longing: to connect what has been divided, to hold the world together in quiet strength.

And so he waits, not for travelers, but for dreams that wander through the green.