(Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The trail down to the lake was heavy with October. Leaves slick with rain clung to the earth, their colors muted in the gray light. A restless wind combed through the birches and maples, shaking loose what remained, and the air smelled of damp moss and smoke drifting from some unseen cabin.
I had walked this path countless times before, but that day felt different—as though the season itself were watching, waiting.
The lake revealed itself suddenly, pewter-colored and brooding, the waves sighing against the stones. Out in the gloom, a loon’s call rose, its cry thin and hollow, like something torn from the past. And then, beneath its echo, I heard another sound. A voice.
My father’s.
I stopped cold. His tone was unmistakable, calling my name as he had so many autumn evenings when I lingered too long at the water’s edge. My breath caught in my throat.
And then I saw him.
A figure stood at the far end of the old dock, half-collapsed and rotted with years of neglect. He wore his wool cap, his shoulders hunched the way they always had against the wind. He didn’t move, only stood watching the lake, one hand resting on the post.
“Dad?” My voice shook.
The figure turned, lifting his arm as though beckoning me nearer. My legs obeyed before my mind could protest, carrying me onto the dock. The air shifted instantly—sharper, colder, as though the season had dropped straight into winter. Each breath stung my lungs. The boards beneath my boots creaked, water pushing up through the cracks.
When I reached the last few steps, he turned fully toward me. His face was pale and blurred, but his eyes burned with recognition—and sorrow.
“Do not linger,” he said. The words were clear, though the wind whipped and howled. His voice was not memory. It was here. Now.
Before I could answer, the dock shuddered violently. With a groan like splitting bones, the far planks gave way. The figure collapsed into the water, vanishing with a splash that sent a spray across my face. I lurched backward, heart pounding, stumbling to the shore as the waves surged higher, slapping furiously at the broken dock.
Panting, I stood rooted to the stones. And then I saw it.
On the wet boards where he had stood, a single lantern glowed—old, rusted, its glass smeared with lake water. The flame inside flickered against the rising wind. My father had carried one just like it years ago when he walked this shoreline at dusk.
I stepped closer, unable to breathe. The lantern’s handle was wet, as though lifted from the depths, and when I reached for it, I felt the chill seep into my palm, cold as death. Yet the flame did not go out.
The lake whispered then—not with words, but with a sound like breath drawn across the surface, insistent, warning, alive. The message shivered through me: the past is never gone, but the living must keep walking forward.
I carried the lantern back up the trail. All through the night its pale flame burned, steady and cold, never wavering even when I set it beside my bed. But when dawn broke and the first rays of sunlight touched the window, the flame guttered, then vanished. The lantern sat empty, its glass dry, as if it had never held light at all.
Yet the weight of it remained in my hands. And so did the truth the lake had whispered: love lingers, even when it fades with the night: “The past does not sleep. It waits, beneath the silence.”
~Wylddane
I had walked this path countless times before, but that day felt different—as though the season itself were watching, waiting.
The lake revealed itself suddenly, pewter-colored and brooding, the waves sighing against the stones. Out in the gloom, a loon’s call rose, its cry thin and hollow, like something torn from the past. And then, beneath its echo, I heard another sound. A voice.
My father’s.
I stopped cold. His tone was unmistakable, calling my name as he had so many autumn evenings when I lingered too long at the water’s edge. My breath caught in my throat.
And then I saw him.
A figure stood at the far end of the old dock, half-collapsed and rotted with years of neglect. He wore his wool cap, his shoulders hunched the way they always had against the wind. He didn’t move, only stood watching the lake, one hand resting on the post.
“Dad?” My voice shook.
The figure turned, lifting his arm as though beckoning me nearer. My legs obeyed before my mind could protest, carrying me onto the dock. The air shifted instantly—sharper, colder, as though the season had dropped straight into winter. Each breath stung my lungs. The boards beneath my boots creaked, water pushing up through the cracks.
When I reached the last few steps, he turned fully toward me. His face was pale and blurred, but his eyes burned with recognition—and sorrow.
“Do not linger,” he said. The words were clear, though the wind whipped and howled. His voice was not memory. It was here. Now.
Before I could answer, the dock shuddered violently. With a groan like splitting bones, the far planks gave way. The figure collapsed into the water, vanishing with a splash that sent a spray across my face. I lurched backward, heart pounding, stumbling to the shore as the waves surged higher, slapping furiously at the broken dock.
Panting, I stood rooted to the stones. And then I saw it.
On the wet boards where he had stood, a single lantern glowed—old, rusted, its glass smeared with lake water. The flame inside flickered against the rising wind. My father had carried one just like it years ago when he walked this shoreline at dusk.
I stepped closer, unable to breathe. The lantern’s handle was wet, as though lifted from the depths, and when I reached for it, I felt the chill seep into my palm, cold as death. Yet the flame did not go out.
The lake whispered then—not with words, but with a sound like breath drawn across the surface, insistent, warning, alive. The message shivered through me: the past is never gone, but the living must keep walking forward.
I carried the lantern back up the trail. All through the night its pale flame burned, steady and cold, never wavering even when I set it beside my bed. But when dawn broke and the first rays of sunlight touched the window, the flame guttered, then vanished. The lantern sat empty, its glass dry, as if it had never held light at all.
Yet the weight of it remained in my hands. And so did the truth the lake had whispered: love lingers, even when it fades with the night: “The past does not sleep. It waits, beneath the silence.”
~Wylddane
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