Near the old mine lies a lake whose name isn’t marked on any map. The locals call it by a word that sounds more like a direction than a place, and if you take the wrong dirt track, you’ll miss it completely.
The water is darker than it should be, not because it’s deep, but because it’s so still. The pines on the shore lean as if listening. On the eastern bank, the remains of an old wooden shed are slowly sinking to the ground.
I go there when I stop writing. I sit on a stone that’s always cold, even in the May sunshine, and wait for the silence to benefit me. And eventually, it always does.
The lake doesn’t give answers. It gives space. That’s enough.