There was no crowd on the bridge. It was too foggy and damp for sightseeing, but the hardy still made their pilgrimages, tiny clutches of locals setting a pounding pace to cross the span before the wind froze them solid. He no longer felt its brackish, tainted bite or even really cared about seeing through the gray clots of fog obscuring the Bay and its island.
I’m sure it’s just me but the writing in this leaves me re-reading passages again and again. It’s exhausting.