You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Some places stop being used but never stop working. A warehouse boarded shut that still hums at night, a payphone torn from the wall but still ringing in rain, a dock where no boats come but the planks keep creaking under invisible weight. Memory clings harder to water than it does to brick. Rivers especially. A river remembers every crossing, every coin tossed, every body lowered, every whisper carried downstream.

This city has a river that forgets nothing. For over a century, it carried grain, coal, and the smell of machines. The ferry once cut across every hour. Then the bridge came, and the ferry was retired. Officially, the job ended. But stories don’t respect retirements. Stories insist some crossings can’t be stopped.

They call it the Ferryman’s Crossing.

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