muddy water lapped at her hooves, invisible save for the very nearest ripples that caught a glare as they broke against the smooth gravel on either side of her. she peered across the river, nearly able to forget the garish lamplight of downtown that played coldly on her back and shone against nothing past the bank.
the bright lights were a protest, the city’s attempt to forget that it was a small town, declaring that “this is an important city” even as every business stood dark and locked above the pristine sidewalks. owners and patrons alike dutifully retired to bed by eight each night with a prayer on their lips to the gods of hard work and a good night’s rest.
in the absence of bustle, the muted rumble of the river filled the air like the voices of ghosts carried across the water. as long as she could remember, she had stood on this bank and stared; river fog clouded her memory of daylight’s view of trees on the other bank, but in the darkness it was impossible to miss the light.
tonight, it shone tiny and crisp against the starless sky, illuminating nothing, though it shone off the crest of a few waves between her and the other bank. there was some sort of truth in the starkness, she thought to herself, despite the lack of a world. blackness and light and nothing in between.
if not for the bridge half a league downstream—and the lanterns of the ponies crossing it at all hours—she might have been able to imagine herself the only pony in the world. if not for the highway that passed through it, the whole town might have been able to imagine itself the only town in the world. or, rather, the whole world might forget to imagine that the town existed at all.
she had never been on the other side of the river. ponies always told her that, “you will, one day.” nopony she knew had ever been there, but tales of green grass, beautiful pastures, and rich farmland circulated throughout town. never first-hoof; always attributed to a neighbor’s friend, or a cousin’s acquaintance. perhaps everypony she knew was simply content to stay in this place, just as they were content to sleep and wake and work and sleep.
or perhaps she was as guilty as they: of never reaching out, of keeping one’s hooves on familiar earth, and not reaching beyond what was already known. though she had sampled every dish at every restaurant in town, that could hardly be called adventurous; she was fairly certain they all served the same canned peas and carrots. after all, it was what everypony was used to.
the shadow of her danced against the inky water as she turned to walk along the shore. one eye squinted against the cheery streetlights, the different lanterns at the top of every pole on every street corner and in front of every shop and apartment. the brilliant light chilled her fur on one side, while the river’s memory of a summer day warmed her other side.
she stepped around a section of chain, made of links as big as herself and brown with the patina of ages. it sprouted from the bank and trailed into the water, waiting, perhaps, for a barge that would never return. maybe it would. the chain could afford to wait, just like the ponies, in a town that never changed.
a riverside pavilion stood above a dozen picnic tables and a shallow stage, next to the museum of the old water works. scant hours ago, this riverside park had been full of ponies celebrating nothing more than another summer evening, the same as every one that had come before. no sign of the festivities remained; no trash, no banners, not even the dust of a hundred hooves. these ponies were very proud of their clean streets; so clean one might be forgiven for thinking there were no ponies living here at all, here in the shadow of the bridge.
the bridge was ancient, immemorial, almost as old as life itself. sturdy timber, soaked in pitch and driven deep into the heart of the earth by ponies long forgotten, stood tall above the river in a sweeping arch invisible in the darkness but so iconic that she couldn’t help but see it in her mind’s eye. so iconic that it was impossible to imagine any pony who didn’t know the exact shape of it.
she was close enough now to the bridge that she could see faces, each one lit by the lantern clutched in their teeth. long lines of the lanterns stretched to one horizon and disappeared on the other side of the bridge, around some unseen curve or stand of trees.
the street lamps’ reach did not extend onto the bridge, and each pony’s baggage, the saddlebags or carts strapped to their backs, disappeared into the darkness before they had halfway crossed.
in the shadow of a barbershop awning, she leaned against the red brick wall and watched the travelers. every eye was fixed on the bridge. it was an enormous thing, and dominated the horizon for a long time as ponies approached the river, but the weight of it seemed to awe every pony who approached.
some gawked with wide eyes as they passed beneath the first truss. others pretended to be unimpressed. a few even sat and wept at the enormity of some ancient pony’s grand design.
as she watched, one pony slowed his trot, and finally came to a stop in the middle of the road. an endless stream of ponies flowed around him and his cart as he looked upward and stared at the light across the bridge. he turned around, lantern still in his teeth, and looked at the city.
she ducked behind a lamppost that was far too narrow to conceal her, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her forehead against its smooth-polished wood. after a few moments, her ears perked as she peeked around the pole.
the stallion had made his way to the edge of the road and reared up on his hind legs. stretching his neck, he hung his lantern on the hook of an empty lamppost, then pulled his cart down a side street and out of her view.
she stepped up to the edge of the road and hesitated, one forehoof in the air. ponies passed by her without looking. she bit her lip and laid her ears against the back of her neck as her hoof stretched out toward the pavement and drew back again.
she backed up until she bumped into the lamppost. with a heavy breath, she sat down and looked across the road at the lantern the stallion had left behind. it could have been any other street lamp, it could have been there from the beginning, it could have…
her eyes wandered up until they met the lantern over her head. it was unique and thus no different than the rest of the streetlights, but this one seemed familiar.
just like the stallion, she leapt up on her rear legs and braced her front hooves against the pole, but she took the lantern’s handle in her mouth and lifted it off its hook. she sat down and held the lantern in her hooves.
it was a hurricane lantern with a big glass globe in the middle, and enameled a dusty cornflower blue. she remembered playing with the lantern whenever she visited her grandmother, pretending to be a railroad engineer or a cave explorer. she remembered other things, too. wonderful things, terrible things, from other towns where things could happen. things that could lift a pony’s soul to incredible dizzying heights, and things that could cut so, so deep.
she looked up again at the light across the river. outside the glow of the city, there was nothing to be seen save for the light. no landscape, no sky. no roads. she took a shuddering breath and watched the flame waver in her hooves. there was nothing for her in this town.
nothing but the lantern in her hooves. the lantern she had hung from a lamppost so long ago. the lantern she took in her teeth, by which she lit her path, one hoofstep at a time, across the bridge.