The two villages and the bridge.

The two villages and the bridge.

There were two tiny villages on two high mountain peaks, opposite each other. The two mountains were separated by a deep, foggy valley.

The peaks were almost always covered by clouds, so people never saw what was in the depths - and they didn't even think that there might be a gateway.

If someone wanted to get to the other village, He had to walk between the mountains for days on a long detour.

This has been the case since human memory, and no one questioned it.

"The mountain is too dangerous," the elderly said. 

"There is nothing there," the young people believed.

However, there was an old hermit who lived on the edge of the village, halfway between the two worlds.

Sometimes he told me:

- There is a bridge between the two villages.

It is short, safe, and has been standing for a long time than any of us would remember.

People laughed. "If there was a bridge, we would see!" They said and returned to their usual ways.

One day, however, a young boy went to the hermit.

"I want to look around in the other village," he said. - Maybe I'll find a mast. I don't want to avoid days.

Show me the bridge!

The hermit started without a word. The clouds swam around them, the air was wet and cool.

The boy already thought the hermit was just joking with him when an old, mossy stone bridge emerged from the fog.

The cloud covered it as if the world wanted to hide it from those who didn't believe it.

The boy crossed, and in minutes he reached the other village. He stopped in amazement: the bridge was always here - only the limitations of the clouds and the faith of the people covered it.

And from that point on, whoever believed in the existence of the bridge, he always found the way - not only in the mountains but also in life.