Fog coils low over the lake, swallowing the shape of the trees and the reflection of a dying moon. The air smells of rain and wood long forgotten, and the silence is too still, like the world is holding its breath. The lakehouse crouches at the water’s edge, its windows dim, its walls heavy with memory. Somewhere inside, a faint light flickers once and fades. It feels less like a refuge and more like a confession waiting to be found.