Journal Entry – December 3, 1871
The lake was frozen thick this morning, but not thick enough to deny me.
I carried the merchant’s body before sunrise, wrapped in canvas. The fog helped — it swallowed my footsteps, softened my shape, and clung to me like a shroud. At the shoreline, a stone axe lay half-buried in snow, abandoned by hunters weeks ago. The handle fit my hand perfectly.
The first strike cracked the ice.
The second split it.
The third opened a mouth in the frozen lake — wide, dark, patient.
Steam rose where the cold met the deeper cold beneath. The fog leaned in, tasting the opening.
When I slid the body into the water, it sank without a sound.
The ice closed behind it like a sealing wound.
I didn’t pray.
I didn’t tremble.
I only watched the last ripple fade.