Entry Twelve: The Song Under Black Water
I followed the frogs. Each one lay still, scattered like forgotten thoughts along the path—perfectly formed, yet cold as stone. Some were half-submerged in moss, others perched on dead leaves, eyes frozen mid-blink. It was their silence that drew me on.
The trail led to a lake I do not remember from any map, though I have walked this wood many times. It did not ripple. The water was thick with algae the color of bruises, its surface black but glinting, as though it remembered fire. Trees leaned toward it, branches brittle and reaching like limbs at rest after mourning. The air was so still, I could hear my own pulse.
And beneath that hush, a hum.
It came not from above or below, but within—as though the lake itself remembered a song, and chose this moment to remember out loud. The sound had no words, but my bones recognized it. A slow rise, a breath held too long, and then a note that bent the light around it.
I stepped closer. My reflection waited. It looked back with eyes gently closed, yet its mouth began to move—shaping the melody I heard. I did not move. I did not breathe. I watched as something in me sang without my consent.
They say the marshes beyond Haldenmere were once orchards. That fruit trees grew along the shore and lovers carved their names into bark. But one day, a voice was born into the water—too old to be new, too deep to rise—and everything green began to wither.
I do not know how long I stood there, watching myself sing in silence. When I turned away, the humming stopped. My reflection smiled.
Since then, when I speak, water sometimes falls from my mouth. Not much. A drop. A memory. A warning.
I have not gone back.
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