When the Lake House Sleeps

A Quiet Farewell to Summer 

The lake house was shut tight. They’d put the canoes in the shed and hung the old rod on its nail. It was quiet now. No voices. No water slapping at the rocks. Just the trees standing still and the mist coming in low across the lake.

It had been in the family for a long time. Grandfather built it with a carpenter’s hand tools. No electricity back then. The boards were thick. The roof never leaked. They caught trout in the shallows and cleaned them on the porch. In the evenings, they drank and played cards by the light of the lantern. It was good.

Now, the house stood alone. Empty but not forgotten. The geese were flying south, and the air had gone cold. Summer was over. The house would wait. It always did.