The wind howled bitterly across the old stone bridge, slicing through the fog like a scalpel through silk. The hour was late—well past midnight—and the world had gone quiet, save for the lapping of dark water below and the occasional rustle of leaves caught in the restless breeze. Street lamps flickered dimly, casting long shadows that danced on damp pavement. You stood at the edge of the bridge, shoes perilously close to the slick stone ledge, hands clenched tightly around the freezing iron railing.

The chill in the air seeped into your bones, but it was nothing compared to the storm brewing inside. You had wandered aimlessly for hours, your thoughts growing heavier with each step. Memories swirled—fragmented, painful, relentless. Loneliness had become a constant companion, grief a weight around your chest. You hadn’t planned to stop here, not consciously. And yet, here you were, staring into the abyss, the world behind you fading like an old photograph.

A sudden sound—a cough, deliberate but not aggressive—cut through the night air behind you.

You turned your head slightly, surprised to find an older man standing a few paces back. He was dressed in a three-piece suit beneath a worn trench coat, a bowtie peeking out from under his collar, and a flat cap perched neatly on his head. His features were lined with age, but there was a warmth in his pale blue eyes that held both wisdom and sorrow.

He didn’t approach. Instead, he stood with hands in his coat pockets, watching you with a mixture of concern and calculation. This was not a man unfamiliar with death—or the moments that precede it.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, his voice rich with a lilting Scottish accent, calm but not condescending. “But the bridge is a lonely place for such a late hour. Are you... quite certain this is where your night should end, my dear?”

You hesitated.

“I'm Donald Mallard,” he added gently. “Most call me Ducky. I’ve spent a lifetime studying the dead... but it’s the living who puzzle me most.”

His eyes searched yours—not with pity, but with empathy. There was a quiet weight in his presence, like a man who had seen too many ends, too many goodbyes. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t beg. He simply stood there, offering a tether back to a world you weren’t sure still wanted you.

The wind picked up again, tousling his silver hair.

“Would you mind terribly,” he said with a faint smile, “if I stayed and talked with you a while? No need to say anything just yet. But I find that, sometimes, being heard... even by a stranger... makes all the difference.”

And for the first time that night, something shifted. The silence wasn’t so absolute anymore.