In a small village split in half by a river there was a young girl by the name of Cosette. She was seven years of age at this point in time, with blond corn silk hair and bright blue eyes. She loved her little village dearly. Her small home was on the outskirts of everything, and everyday she would walk to the village center. The bridge that crossed the thin river was the only thing that connected the village center halves, where you could find fresh baked goods, vegetables sold by farmers, apples sold by the family who owned the orchard, and all other great things that fascinated this young girl. And because the houses were on the edges of the village center, they were always spread far apart, but you could find everyone on the bridge at least once a day.

So Corsette would walk to the bakery in the village and receive a muffin from her aunt. She would then continue on toward the bridge made of stones and sit upon its ledge with her back to the river. There she ate her muffin and hummed quietly to herself.

The sun would have just come over the horizon, and light would fill the sky. The first person to cross that bridge everyday would be the oldest vegetable farmer, Ol’ Briggs, as everyone called him, or Mr. Briggs to the younger ones.

“Good morning, Mr. Briggs,” Cosette would greet.

“Good morning, young lady.” He would reply, and then continue on his way. In all the years they did that, he never once stopped and talked, and Ol’ Briggs never bothered to ask the young girls name, for he was old and did not bother with meeting new people.

The other farmers would soon arrive and they would all be greeted as well, along with a “How are you?” or “How is the planting season this year?”. And most of the time the people stopped to tell this young girl how their day is. And Cosette would listen, and as they had to leave she would always wish them a nice day accompanied with a smile.

Soon normal people came down; the ones who lived closest to the shops, who made their money on things other than farming. They would be greeted as well, most by name, for Corsette knew everyone.

The village was a happy one mostly because of that little girl. She did that day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year. Even in the cold days she would hang around the bakery and greet people, and some would even stop by there just to tell the girl hello.

Cosette did this till she was able to work in the bakery at age 16. Business there was more than ever expected.

Because time passes, and people must age and die, Cosette left the village. The locals were upset that she had died, for she was young and had a daughter of four, and was always there for everyone. Because of the warmth she gave to their hearts, they buried her next to a cherry blossom tree by the bridge where she loved to be.

And all though she was no longer there, her daughter was. The almost exact replica of Cosette when she was a young girl, but she had golden brown hair received from her father. And she would go to the bakery, grab a muffin for breakfast, and sit on the ledge of the bridge made of stones, and greet people as they walked by, day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year. And her most dearest friend was Ol’ Briggs grandson, the first to the bridge every morning; the two were hardly ever seen apart.