She promised her husband she would never do it again and she had kept that promise. She had crossed the bridge since then, but not all the way to the outside. She wrote her books and slipped them through the mist or gave them to those who dared to cross in hopes that they would distribute them on the outside. She laid her broom aside, walked over to her desk and flipped through the pages of her manuscript. This was a special book she was writing for everyone including the outsiders across the bridge. When she was finished and copies were printed, she would slip them through the mist at the end of the bridge. Maybe someone will find them. She stopped and read the last thing she’d written: “In the forest, an oak tree drops her acorns. Some are eaten by deer or carried off by squirrels or other animals, but some grow into trees. When the acorn sprouts and starts its life as a sapling, the mother oak tree somehow finds it among all the other saplings and sends it nourishment. She somehow knows which saplings are hers.
