The Silent lake

The Silent Lake

In a remote mountain valley, hidden by thick forests and jagged cliffs, lay a lake so still it seemed like glass. The locals called it Myrhaven and avoided it, whispering tales of people who ventured too close and never returned.

One late autumn afternoon, a traveler named Marcus arrived in the valley. He was a painter in search of inspiration, driven by an insatiable hunger to capture beauty no one else dared to approach. When he heard of Myrhaven, he knew he had found his next subject.

Ignoring the warnings, Marcus hiked through the forest until he reached the lake. It was as stunning as the rumors claimed. The water mirrored the fiery colors of the autumn leaves, the mountains framing it like a cathedral. But as Marcus set up his easel, he noticed something unsettling—there was no sound.

No birds sang, no insects buzzed, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

—

Hours passed as Marcus painted. The silence was oppressive, but he forced himself to focus. The reflection on the lake’s surface was mesmerizing, and he found himself painting it with an almost obsessive fervor.

As dusk fell, Marcus felt a strange compulsion to stay longer. He added finer details to his work—the way the light faded, the shadows creeping across the water. But when he looked up, the reflection in the lake didn’t match the world around it.

The sky above was dark, but in the water, the sun still lingered on the horizon. The trees were vibrant and full of leaves, even as the ones around him were bare. And then he saw movement.

A figure stood on the far shore, its outline hazy and indistinct, as if it belonged to the reflection rather than reality.

—

The figure raised an arm and pointed at Marcus. He stumbled back, his brush falling from his hand. When he blinked, the figure was gone—but the reflection remained unchanged, vibrant and alive.

Marcus packed up his things, his heart racing. As he turned to leave, he felt the ground shift beneath him, as if the earth i

tself were tilting toward