The old bridge had been abandoned for decades, its rusted metal planks sagging under the weight of time and neglect. No one knew when it was built or who had once crossed it, but every town kid had heard the story. It was said that if you stood on the bridge at midnight and whispered your deepest secret into the wind, the bridge would answer. Not with words, but with something else—something that made your skin crawl and your breath catch in your throat. Most dismissed it as a local legend, a tale meant to scare children away from the dangerous structure. But for those who dared to test the claim, the results were never the same. Some came back pale and silent, others with hollow eyes and strange whispers that didn’t belong to them. The bridge became a place of hushed conversations, a forbidden curiosity that grew with each passing year. Lena was twelve when she first heard the story. She had moved to the town just months before, and the other kids had warned her about the bridge. "Don't go there," they said. "It's cursed." But Lena wasn't one for superstitions. She liked stories, especially ones that felt real. So when her friend Marco suggested they check it out one night, she agreed without hesitation. They found the bridge just after sunset, its skeletal frame silhouetted against the fading light. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and decay. As they approached, the wind picked up, carrying with it a low, mournful hum that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Marco laughed nervously, but Lena felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Let’s do it," she said, her voice steady despite the unease creeping up her spine. They climbed onto the bridge, the planks groaning beneath their weight. At the center, Lena closed her eyes and whispered the thing she had never told anyone—the fear that she was never truly loved, that her parents only kept her around because they had no choice. When she finished, the wind stopped. The world fell silent. Then, from somewhere deep within the bridge, a voice answered. Not loud, not clear, but unmistakable. It spoke her name. "Lena." She froze. Marco grabbed her arm, his face drained of color. "We should go," he said, but Lena couldn’t move. The voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t cruel. It was… familiar. Like someone she had known a long time ago, someone who had always been waiting for her. The next day, Lena didn’t tell anyone what happened. She didn’t sleep well, and when she did, she dreamed of the bridge again. In her dreams, she walked across it, not alone this time, but with a figure beside her—someone who looked like her, but older, with eyes that held secrets she couldn’t understand. Weeks passed, and the story of the bridge spread. More kids started going, some just to prove it was nonsense, others to see if they could hear the voice too. Each return brought changes. One boy came back with a scar on his hand that hadn’t been there before. A girl claimed she saw her dead grandmother standing on the bridge, smiling. Another left the town entirely, saying she had seen something she couldn’t explain. The adults, meanwhile, ignored the rumors. They called it nonsense, a product of overactive imaginations. But the bridge remained, standing in silence, watching, waiting. One night, a group of teenagers gathered near the bridge, determined to uncover the truth. They brought flashlights and cameras, ready to capture whatever might happen. They stood on the bridge, just as Lena had, and whispered their secrets. The wind rose, and the bridge responded. But this time, it wasn’t just voices. It was movement. The planks shifted, creaking as if something heavy was walking across them. The teenagers ran, but the bridge didn’t let them go. It pulled them in, deeper into its shadowed heart. By morning, the bridge was empty, and no one could find the missing kids. The town tried to forget. They painted over the rust, sealed off the entrance, and buried the story in the past. But the bridge never disappeared. It still stood, waiting. And sometimes, when the wind blew just right, people swore they heard whispers coming from its depths. No one knows what happens to those who cross it. Some say the bridge takes what it wants, a piece of the soul, a memory, or a secret. Others believe it’s just an old structure with a mind of its own, a place where the past lingers and the present can’t escape. But the question remains: if you stand on the bridge and whisper your secret, will it answer? Or will it take something in return?