South Crossing

The scene opens with a soft golden mist rising over fields of waving grass and wheat. Early morning light filters through the trees, casting long shadows across humble thatched roofs and cobbled lanes. A gentle breeze stirs banners and drying linens. Chickens scatter as a cart creaks past, and distant laughter echoes from children preparing festival costumes.   The camera pans over the village of South Crossing—small but proud, nestled in a cradle of earth and river. Crooked chimneys puff smoke, and villagers bustle in the square preparing for the River Festival. A distant bell rings once from the small chapel tower. The air is crisp, and the atmosphere warm.   The shot continues, shifting past the festival booths and colorful garlands strung between trees. As the view glides above rooftops, the vast Shiverwash comes into sight—its waters still and deep, catching the light like silver glass.   The bridge enters the frame, ancient and crumbling. Only the first stone arch still stands proud from the South Crossing bank; the rest is shattered, with timeworn stones jutting from the shallows before disappearing entirely into the wide waters. The bridge-house, squat and moss-covered, clings to the structure’s base like a barnacle. A red banner flutters lazily from its door.   Beside the bridge, cradled at the edge of the river, stands the Wishing Tree. Its bark is pale and smooth, unlike any native tree. Strips of cloth hang from every branch, dancing in the breeze. Wax-sealed paper charms rustle like whispers. The earth around it is well-worn from decades—maybe centuries—of hopeful footprints.   The camera pulls back, revealing the true scale of the Shiverwash: a half-mile across, more lake than river here. And beyond—fog. Thick and silver, the far bank swallowed in mystery. Shapes sometimes flicker in the mist—a leaning stone, a crooked stump, a silhouette—but never for long.   The camera holds.   The river reflects sky. The fog looms. The tree waits.   South Crossing wakes.