This is a reimagined version of the classic tale---The Bridge To Terabithia. This Fanfic is part of my NaNoWriMo or Novel Writing November exercise 2025.
AUTUMN DRIFT
The darkness outside pressed against the windows as Leslie pulled on a sweater, the wool scratchy against her skin. She needed to move, to do something about the swirl of questions in her head. Her parents. The Burkes. Where were they?
She started with the local newspaper office in Larkspur, the nearest town. The November air was crisp and smelled like wood smoke as she walked down Main Street, the streetlights casting pools of yellow on the wet sidewalk. The newspaper office was a small, cluttered place with a bell above the door that jangled as she entered.
"Can I help you?" the editor, a gruff man with a mustache, looked up from sorting papers.
"I'm looking for information about my family," Leslie said, trying to sound calm. "The Burkes. We lived here about...fifteen years ago."
The editor squinted, shuffling through stacks of old papers. "Don't recall anything offhand. We don't keep archives that far back, kid. You might try the county records in Hillsboro."
Leslie nodded, thanking him. The walk to the parking lot was cold, the wind rustling leaves in the gutter. She drove the pickup to Hillsboro, the rural roads dark and winding, headlights picking out bare trees.
The county records office was a squat brick building with a faint smell of old books. Inside, a sleepy clerk helped her dig through dusty deed books and microfiche viewers that whirred as she scrolled through decades-old property records. No Burkes. No mention of a Leslie Burke in the birth or adoption records. The clerk's expression was sympathetic but unhelpful.
"Try the old library in Marlborough," she suggested. "Sometimes they keep local histories."
Leslie left with a mix of frustration and desperation creeping in like the cold seeping through her jacket. The library was a Victorian building with spires and creaky floors, its children's section dimly lit in the late evening. The librarian, Mrs. Turner, had spectacles perched on her nose and a kind smile.
"Burkes, you say? Let me check the local history files." She led Leslie to a back room filled with yellowed newspapers and scrapbooks. Hours passed as they flipped through pages of Larkspur's past – festivals, fires, obituaries. No mention of a Leslie Burke or her parents. No hint of a drowning accident.
"We did have a Burke family here," Mrs. Turner said finally, tapping a thin file. “Bill and Jessica Burke. Moved away suddenly. No address left, I'm afraid."
Leslie's fingers tightened on the file. Suddenly. Why? "Do you know if they had any friends in town? Anyone who might remember them?"
Mrs. Turner thought for a moment. "The old pastor at St. Mark's might know. Reverend Thompson. He's retired now, lives out on Oakwood Drive."
The drive was a mistake. Oakwood Drive led to a small, tidy house with a porch lit by a single bulb. Reverend Thompson answered the door, his eyes cloudy with age. Leslie explained, and he listened with a gentle nod.
"Ah, the Burkes. Good people. Left very suddenly after...after a tragedy, I recall. But I don't know where they went. They were private, kept to themselves mostly. Sorry, child."
Leslie left with the darkness feeling heavier, the trees on Oakwood Drive looming like sentinels. No leads. No parents. The weight pressed on her chest as she drove back to the Rosemonte Greene, the house's emptiness waiting like a hollow.
She walked in, dropped onto the couch, and let the silence wrap around her. The flickering shadows of tree branches outside danced on the walls. She felt small, lost in a town that held secrets. What now?
The clock ticked in the hallway, a slow, heavy sound. Leslie stood, went to the kitchen, made coffee in the percolator, the smell bitter and grounding. She sat back in the dark, sipping it, staring at nothing.
A knock at the door broke the stillness. She hesitated, then opened it to find Jesse Aaron standing under the porch light, his breath visible in the cold.
"Hey," he said softly. "I saw you leave the hospital. You okay?"
Leslie shrugged, stepping aside. Jesse came in, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "May's gonna be okay," he said. "But...I'm sorry about what she did."
Leslie nodded, the words a fresh sting. Her eyes met his.
The night hung heavy outside, the trees creaking. For now, the silence between them was a fragile truce, the coffee growing cold in Leslie's cup.
*****
The Aaron's old farmhouse stood like a friendly sentinel next door, its windows glowing warmly in the late November dusk. Leslie had grown up playing with Jesse in the woods between their houses, and yet, a chasm had opened. She didn't know how to bridge it.
She hadn't told them. About the Golden Room. About remembering. About being Leslie Burke. The words felt like fragile glass in her mouth, liable to shatter if she breathed wrong. What if they didn't believe her? What if they looked at her differently, like a curiosity or, worse, a lie?
The Aarons knew her as Leonie, the quiet girl who kept to herself, who'd moved in with the Langs years ago. They'd been kind, friendly neighbors, but they'd never mentioned a thing about her past. No hints, no whispers of a Leslie Burke. It was as if they'd agreed to let the past sleep, and now she was stirring it up.
And there was May Belle. May Belle, who'd cut the rope. The memory of that revelation still cut deep, a raw wound Leslie wasn't sure she could face in the Aarons' kitchen. How could she ask them about her parents when May Belle was in the hospital, fighting for her life because of something Leslie had almost died for? The guilt twisted inside her like a wire.
Leslie pictured walking over, knocking on the door, and saying what? Hi, I'm Leslie Burke. Do you remember my real parents? It felt like stepping onto thin ice, not knowing where the cracks were. The Aarons were kind, but they were also May Belle's parents. Would they want to protect their daughter, push Leslie away? Or would they think she's crazy, grasping at a past that wasn't hers to claim?
The thought made her chest tighten. Better to gather threads of her own first, to be sure of what she was asking. To protect herself, maybe, from seeing pity or doubt in their eyes. The woods between the houses, once a playground, now felt like a buffer, a safe distance where she could sort through shadows before facing anyone.
Instead, Leslie turned away from the Aaron's warm lights and walked deeper into the darkening woods, the rustle of leaves underfoot a quiet echo of her confusion. She needed to breathe, to think, to unravel this thread of a life she was only beginning to remember.
The trees closed around her, branches swaying with a faint creak in the wind. No answers here, just the steady heartbeat of the woods. But it was enough for now, this space where no one knew her secrets yet. Tomorrow she'd start asking, carefully. But not the Aarons. Not yet...
To Be Continued...
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