Under the bridge, you can hide from the rain

Certain things need to be believed in to exist. Like trolls. They are only there if you believe in them. And even then, in the case of trolls, it takes many, many people to actually bring them to life. But nobody knows what they are like when they come to life, because it has been many, many years since the last troll breathed his last breath. His name was Attican, and he is frozen beneath a tall, noisy bridge leading into a big, bustling city. Most of the young, hip people in this city zoom over Attican every day without every knowing he is there, and they laugh whenever the old, drunk man on the corner holds out his cup and asks them if they\'d like to hear a story about a troll. The old, drunk man is very, very old, and not drunk at all. His hair is grey, and braided, and reaches towards the ground like the roots of a magic tree. His jacket was green when it was new, and it had brass buttons the shined when the sun found its way through the maze of the Pacific clouds. But like the land itself, his jacket greyed and patches fell away, and it sagged as he filled its many pockets with bits and pieces of history. Things he deemed important, like a colorful stone or a mouse who needed rescuing from an angry chef\'s trap. And it is the most wonderful thing in the world to look into the old man\'s pockets. And for each pocket, he will tell you a story. And for each story, he will open up a door in your mind, behind which you will find something truly amazing.

So it was a rainy Tuesday, the day that I stopped at the corner and dropped a dollar in the old man\'s cup. Maybe I stayed a moment longer than I should have, or maybe he sensed that I needed to hear something specific. In either case, I had begun to turn away when I heard his voice, and the rattling of the stories in his pockets. \"This is the story of Attican, the last troll, who lives under the bridge...\"