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Vlatva River.  

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Vlatva River A short story by Mark Buchanan It was a dirty and miserable street. Dirt and grime caked the stone and smoke was coming from the factory chimneys. The street lamps cast pools of light on the wet cobbles, illuminating the heads of the saints as they keep their stony vigils on the walls of Charles Bridge. Fog rising from the river curls its tentacles between the statues, wreathing a head for a few seconds or obscuring entire sections of the ancient walls. The Vltava flows oily and invisible thirty feet below. A bell somewhere in Hradcany strikes three. The sound of running footsteps batters the muffled air, and then a cry. Jacob, his bare feet filthy and bleeding, almost catches his wife's shoulder as she flees under the gothic archway of the Bridge Tower. But a chipped cobble tears the ball of his foot and he sprawls on...

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