The fog is thick. It tastes of iron. You stand at the edge of the pier. The wood is wet. Your boots slip. You hold your breath. The water below is black. It does not move. It waits. You are seven years old. You are small. The fog eats the world. It eats the sky. It eats the shore. You cannot see your hand in front of your face. You can only see the bridge. It is pale. It is old. The stones are worn smooth. They look like teeth. They look like bones.

Your father is gone. He went into the fog three days ago. He did not come back. The people in the house say he drowned. They say it softly. They say it while they eat. They say it while they pour their tea. They do not look at you. They look at the floor. They look at the clock. They look at the fog. They do not look at you because you are a burden. You are a mistake. You are the reason he left. You are the reason he is dead.

You believe them. You have always believed them. You are bad. You are strange. You draw things in the dirt. You draw bridges. You draw eyes. The other children do not like you. They throw stones. They say you are a ghost. They say you are a witch. You do not care. You have your father. Or you had him. Now you have the fog.

There is a woman. She lives in the house next door. Her name is Mrs. Vane. She is tall. She is thin. Her dress is dark. It is always dark. She smells of lavender and rot. She is the only one who speaks to you. She speaks to you when the others are not listening. She calls you, "My dear." She calls you, "My little bird." Her voice is soft. It is like silk. It is like a knife.

"Come inside," she says.

You go inside. The house is cold. The walls are damp. There are pictures on the wall. They are old. They show people in strange clothes. They show a man with a crown. He is smiling. His smile is too wide. It is wrong.

"Your father," Mrs. Vane says. She sits down. She does not look at you. She looks at the fire. The fire is small. It is blue. "He was a good man. He was a strong man. He was a king."

You shake your head. He was not a king. He was a worker. He fixed the pipes. He fixed the leaks. He was quiet. He was sad.

"He was a king of the fog," she says.

The fog is not water. You know this now. You have always known it, but you did not want to admit it. The fog is a living thing. It has a will. It has a hunger. It eats the living. It eats the strong. It eats the kings.

"Did he come back?" you ask.

She smiles. It is a cold smile. "He is waiting. He is waiting for you. He is waiting for his crown."

You do not understand. You do not want to understand. You want to go home. You want to sit in the corner. You want to disappear. But you cannot. The fog is pulling at you. It is a rope. It is a hand. It is pulling you toward the bridge.

You must cross the bridge. You must find your father. If you do not, you will be alone. If you do not, the fog will eat you. It is a simple thing. It is a logic you cannot escape. You are the son. You must do the father’s work. You must take the crown.

You leave the house. The fog is thicker. It is darker. The air is heavy. It presses on your chest. It presses on your mind. You feel dizzy. You feel light. You feel like you are floating.

The bridge is ahead. It stretches out into the nothing. The stones are pale. They are white. They are like bones. You step onto the first stone. It is cold. It is hard. It bites into your shoe.

You walk. You walk for a long time. The fog does not end. The bridge does not end. You are small. You are tired. Your legs ache. Your heart beats. Thump. Thump. Thump. It is the only sound.

You hear a voice. It is far away. It is your father’s voice.

"Come here, son."

You walk faster. You run. You slip. You fall. Your face hits the stone. It hurts. You bleed. The blood is red. It is bright. It looks like a flower.

You stand up. You keep walking. The voice is closer. It is louder. It is angry. It is sad. It is afraid.

"Come here," it says. "I am cold. I am hungry. Come here."

You reach the middle of the bridge. The fog is swirling. It is forming a shape. It is forming a man. He is tall. He is broad. He is wearing a suit. It is a dark suit. It is wet. He is looking at you. His face is pale. His eyes are empty. They are like holes.

You stop. You are afraid. You want to run. Your legs will not move. The fog is holding you. The fog is strong. The fog is the king.

Your father opens his mouth. He does not speak. He screams. The scream is silent. It is a scream of pain. It is a scream of rage. It is a scream of loss.

You look at him. You see the truth. He is not waiting for you. He is waiting to die. He is waiting to give you the crown. He is giving you the pain. He is giving you the weight. He is passing it on. He is betraying you. He is letting you take his place.

You realize it. It hits you like a stone. He did not drown. He did not die. He is trapped. He is stuck. He is part of the fog. And he wants you to be part of it too. He wants you to be his replacement. He wants you to be the new king. He wants you to suffer so he can rest.

You look at the bridge. It is worn. It is broken. It is a trap. It is a cage. It is a lie.

You feel sick. You feel angry. You want to scream. You want to fight. You want to break the bridge. You want to break the fog. You want to break your father.

But you are seven. You are small. You are weak. You cannot break it. You cannot fight it. You must accept it. You must take the crown. You must become the king.

You step forward. You take his hand. His hand is cold. It is dry. It is dead. You hold it. You hold it tight. You do not let go.

The fog closes in. It is warm. It is soft. It is like a blanket. It is like a hug. It is like a lie.

You close your eyes. You wait. You wait for the pain. You wait for the end. You wait for the crown.

But it does not come.

The fog stops. The silence returns. The bridge is still there. Your father is still there. But he is not holding your hand. He is letting go. He is stepping back. He is fading.

He is gone.

He is not dead. He is not trapped. He is free. He chose to leave. He chose to let you go. He chose to save you. He did not want you to be the king. He wanted you to be a boy. He wanted you to be free.

You stand alone on the bridge. The fog is thinning. The light is coming. It is gray. It is soft. It is real.

You look at the bridge. It is worn. It is old. It is no longer a trap. It is just a bridge. It is just stone. It is just wood. It is just a path.

You do not understand it. You do not feel free. You feel empty. You feel lost. You feel small.

You walk off the bridge. You walk toward the shore. You walk toward the house. You walk toward the world.

The fog is gone. The sun is out. It is bright. It is hot. It is too much.

You are seven years old. You are alone. You are free.

And it is the most terrifying thing you have ever felt.

You do not look back. You do not want to see the bridge. You do not want to see the fog. You do not want to see your father.

You walk. You walk until your feet bleed. You walk until the sun sets. You walk until the stars come out.

You are free.

You are alone.

You are home.

The end.