The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue over the bustling streets of Riverton. On a quiet bench overlooking the river, an elderly man named Thomas sat, watching the water ripple and flow under the old stone bridge. The bridge had always been his favorite spot, a place where he could sit for hours and let his mind drift. It was where he found solace, and more often than not, it was where he found the courage to remember. Thomas had lived in Riverton all his life. He had watched the town grow from a sleepy village to a lively community, yet, through all those years, the bridge had remained the same. It was as if it held onto the past, just as he did. As he gazed at the water, lost in thought, a faint sound broke through his reverie—a soft, hesitant cry. He turned his head to see a young boy standing at the edge of the bridge, tears streaming down his cheeks. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten years old, with scruffy brown hair and wide, fearful eyes. He clut...