Vael and the Bridge of Backsides

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The moon hung over the path like an old clock, and Vael heard his heart beat like a loose pendulum. Below him, Skarn, his dragon-skinned companion, set his talons so quietly that even the wind stopped. Something clinked in the pockets of his saddle—the small bone box he'd been carrying for days, sealed with a cord of hair. A request lived within, the old woman had said, a request that only breathed at night. The path led them through the Glass Forest, where the trees whispered as if speaking in dreams. Fireflies hung in the air like floating letters, and Vael knew: whoever walked here had to carry a story, or the forest would erase him. His story lay in that box, and it weighed heavier the closer they came to the lens—a river so still that it didn't reflect the light, but swallowed it. On the bank stood a bell without a clapper. But it rang in Vael's teeth as Skarn stopped. A mist formed, and out of it stepped a figure of moonlight—neither man nor woman, a thin outline holding a pair of scissors made of shadow. "You carry something that wants to be heard," it spoke, its voice vibrating not against Vael's skin, but beneath it. "I carry what has been entrusted to me," Vael replied. "Then you also know that the Collector of Backs awaits you. He will offer to take your weight. But whoever gives it up loses what holds them back." The figure gestured toward the bridge. Beyond it stood a man, his shadow walking on the wrong side. There was nothing in his hands, yet he seemed barely able to hold it. Vael nodded to the flickering creature. "Speak," it whispered, "if you know the right voice." The figure bent. A sound like a slash through silence ripped through the air—and the bone box opened by itself. Something cold escaped, a breath that was not a word, only a sense: Bring me back before my echo replaces you. Skarn snorted, and Vael felt the night gain weight. The fireflies formed a line across the bridge, and Vael followed. The man there looked up, and his shadow remained like an abandoned dog. "You're late," he said. "I'll come if I'm carried," Vael answered. "Let me hold the box. Stories belong in skilled hands." Vael looked down into the river. Reflected there was not his face, but the back of his head—with the old scar he'd never seen. "If I give it to you," he said calmly, "I'll become too light to find my way back. And he who becomes too light falls through the world." The Collector smiled without a mouth. "Then open it yourself." Vael did so. No light, no sound—only a breath that dissolved all his waiting. He saw a house that had never been his, and within it, a chair that spoke his name. The echo that would replace him slid over the parapet and fell into the river without a trace. The collector grew paler, his shadow dissolving first, then his body.