The Hidden Crossing

At the island station, the clerk told us the footbridge had disappeared. A storm had covered the old crossing, and the last ferry had left. We had planned to reach our guesthouse before sunset, so everyone fell quiet. Then a fisherman waved us toward a narrow path behind the ticket shed. At its end, wooden steps disappeared beneath brown water and swaying grass. Nobody wanted to go first, until a dog trotted down confidently. Following it, we found a line of stones beneath the water. By the time we reached the village, sunset had turned the water gold. Since then, I have trusted local dogs more than printed maps.