I wrote this a long while back. Hope you enjoy. I split it into 2 parts since it's a rather long "short story".

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Brochtenshire was a pleasant little town. Many miles from any large community, it was a small, quiet haven where no more than a score of pleasant farmers lived and thrived. A large, glass-like river ran on one side separating the town and its tilled plots from the lush and grassy fields that lay on the other side. A wooden bridge ran over the river so the children could run and play in the beautiful expanse of greenery.

At a glance, there didn’t seem to be a need for a bridge. A person could take one large step to cross the river at its thinnest part. But the locals knew the river reached down nearly twenty feet and flowed so swiftly that one would be carried miles downriver before it slowed. Besides the one point, it was almost thirty feet wide, and so the bridge was put in both for convenience and safety. Ah, but a wonderful place to live! The smell of pies in the summertime and the simple life of the farmers made it a little corner of heaven. I should know. I once lived there.

It was that simplicity and calmness of life that drew Mr. Mispy to Brochtenshire. He came from a large city, and failing to find success and happiness in business, he gave up his company in search of such. I remember him well, though I was young at the time. No more than twelve years old. He had a certain warmth to him and cheer in his eyes. I watched him many times sit in the grassy field, just watching the children play and admiring the views. He was tall enough to look strong but short enough to not be intimidating, and he had a bushy mustache that was always curved upwards with his bright smile. If service was ever to be done, he was there doing it. If anyone was ever downcast, he was there to pick them back up. Soon, this stranger who came as a middle-aged business owner became a dear member of the tight Brochtenshire family. Even more literally so when he married Magdalene Durst, whom I always knew as and will refer simply to as Mrs. Mispy.

Oh, and what a charming couple they were! No one could argue that they were meant for each other. They were content and happy with one another each and every day. Any conflict they had was resolved with simple, carefully measured words, and they refused to let any trivial thing come between them. They were wed on the wooden bridge and so every day they would have lunch there, watching the normal ongoings of the town and enjoying each other’s company. The children loved them and would wait eagerly to meet them at noontime to receive candied chestnuts from Mrs. Mispy and listen to Mr. Mispy tell a short story to entertain them.

It was one such day that I, with the others, waited on the bridge for the arrival of the Mispys. Mr. Mispy, who was unfailingly punctual (likely by habit of business), was late that day. And just as we discussed whether to see if he was occupied, Mr. Mispy appeared on the path walking alone towards us at a measured pace. Naturally, the younger children raced to him while a few of the older children (myself included) waited for him to reach the bridge. Soon, he did, and letting go of the little hands he was holding from walking the youngest over, he adjusted his coat and I noticed his smile shone a little less.

“My friends, I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for lunch today. Mrs. Mispy has a slight cough and I’m taking care of her. Oh…but I almost forgot-” He reached into his pocket and produced several of Mrs. Mispy’s candied chestnuts, which he distributed to each of us, “She sent me with these for you. Now run along and play. All will be well tomorrow.”

With one last heartwarming smile, he finished giving the last chestnut and watched for a moment as we ran off to play.
In small towns such as Brochtenshire, word travels fast and nothing is private to one. In tradition with this, soon the whole of the town was gathered around the Mispy house asking to see the Missus and offer their services to aid her health. Many were holding small cups of hot tea mixed with herbs that they tried to hand off to Mr. Mispy who was standing in front of the door, not permitting anyone in and attempting to kindly refuse the many remedies he was being offered. Finally, the throng of people loud and persistent that it took several screeches from the whistles of the town lawmen, Sheriff Bluntly and his deputy to restore peace. When all was finally silent, Mr. Mispy addressed the crowd.

“My friends, Mrs. Mispy has naught but a small cough and prefers to stay in bed. Your presence and gifts right now would be overwhelming. Soon, she will be out and about and you will see her then. All will be well tomorrow.”

This answer did not satisfy the crowd, but they gradually left after Mr. Mispy had retreated into his house. He came out twice later to collect water from the river. I was among those that approached him during these times to inquire of Mrs. Mispy. His face bore the same simple, slightly forced smile as earlier that day and his only response was “My friend, all will be well tomorrow.”
Convinced no differing reply would come from him, the townspeople attempted visiting Mrs. Mispy while her husband was out, but this too was to no avail. Mr. Mispy rarely left the house save for fetching water twice daily and when he did so, the deputy was outside, not permitting a single soul to see her.

Perhaps it is the case in a small town also for everyone to be set on understanding or correcting anything unusual. Or maybe having much spare time on your hands leads to gossip and persistent intrusion on the matters of others, even if with good intentions. Whatever the case, Mr. Mispy’s “tomorrow” had long passed and gone, and it had been nearly a week since anyone had seen his wife. Still unfailingly, though his smile rose a little lower and his eyes drooped slightly, he answered everyone with the words that seemed to bear no meaning anymore: “My friends, all will be well tomorrow.” The patience of the people with Mr. Mispy had run short and pleasantry was tossed aside as soon the Dursts (Namely, Mrs. Mispy’s mother and father) came to see her and were denied access to the house. The deputy even stopped watching the house in Mr. Mispy’s absence, and so he soon stopped leaving the house.

For two more days he locked himself inside with her and no one saw anything more of him. Then, one overcast day, noontime came around and the children, who were accustomed to no longer having the gentle company of Mr. Mispy for lunch, were surprised to find him on the bridge, looking down at the swift-moving waters of the river. We ran to see him, but soon saw that his eyes bore the same silvery reflection of the river, and a single tear streamed down his cheek into his downturned mustache. We all stood there silently and awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

“Children,” He said with a faltering and yet calm voice, “Gather your parents and everyone in the town. Tell them to meet me here… on this bridge.” With that, he turned back to the river and leaned against the smooth wooden railing. I remember seeing two drops fall from his figure and join the rush of the stream below before I ran off to gather everyone.

It didn’t take long for everyone to gather. All were present besides Mrs. Mispy, the deputy, who was guarding the house, and the sheriff, who was nowhere to be found. All had many questions and demands to make of Mr. Mispy, but all were silenced by the new look in his usually welcoming eyes. They were dark and silver, with eyelids resting a little lower. It was enough to disarm anyone who dared to ask anything of him… and so no one did.

Finally content that all were present, Mr. Mispy broke the deafening silence.

“My friends,” He began slowly, “As you are well aware, Mrs. Mispy had a slight cough come over her. This cough persisted until it became a heavy cough and finally-“ Here, he paused, turning towards the river and then back again towards the people, “It became the vessel that carried her to our Christ.” He spoke with a faltering voice again now, and the silver cloud in his eyes became a stream down to his mustache which was now condensed from his lips being held tight together in grief. “None will miss Magdalene as much as I shall, and I ask for your patience and understanding as I take a bit of time to recover from losing her.”

There were many hushed understandings and a few approached Mr. Mispy with apologies and their condolences, but in the end, Mr. Mispy walked back down the path alone with the same measured pace as that very first day and was soon out of sight, leaving a small group of shocked and confused villagers.

Moments after Mr. Mispy had gone, the sheriff came up the other path with a hurried gait and a very disturbed countenance. Still recovering from the shock of the news and now startled by the sheriff’s unusual behavior, all stood there silently in a sort of huddle, unsure of what was happening. The sheriff, hurriedly looking over everyone, asked for Mr. Mispy, but upon finding everyone except him was there, he addressed them all instead from the bridge.

“Well, now. This is awkward and all, being a time of mourning, but I’m afraid something more sinister has been taking place, and it is my duty to inform you of such. I was there to confirm the death of Mrs. Mispy and it seems the house was not expecting guests because there on the table was a small bottle of morrom, that is, a slow-acting poison that kills a person within two days. And since Mr. Mispy was alone with his wife there for two days-“ He paused, as if he could scarcely believe the words himself, “He must have murdered her.”

A few moments were spent in absolute silence. Nothing but the gentle rushing of water could be heard.