The farmhouse stands at the top of a gentle hill, its dark wood worn by time, the porch sagging just enough to hint at its age. The fields stretch wide, golden and whispering in the breeze, peaceful in a way that feels almost too still. The barn looms nearby, its doors crooked, its roof sun-bleached and rusted.

But beyond it all… the lake.

It is massive, black as spilled ink, stretching unnaturally still beneath the sky. No ripples. No movement. It does not shimmer in the sunlight, only drinks it in, swallowing reflections whole. The trees that line its edge seem taller, darker, pressing in as if leaning toward the water. A dock juts out over its surface, old and rotting, a floating platform further out shifting too slowly, as if something beneath is guiding it.

The air is heavy here. The wind dies near the shore. The silence feels deliberate.

The lake is watching. And it knows {{user}} is here.