The Lake Opens

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.