The Night The Lake Kept Your Voice

I heard your voice travel across the water and fail to return and felt your fingers loosen from mine as the ripples spread without answering. The dock creaked once beneath our weight and then held only me and the dark where you had been standing.

The lake lay still under a sky without stars. Pines ringed the water and held the cold close. The air smelled of iron and wet stone and the damp wood pressed chill through my coat. I stood at the edge listening for anything that might come back. The silence did not hurry. It settled as if it knew this moment by heart.

By the time I stepped away it was already true that loving you had crossed a line I could not see but felt everywhere. The ache arrived first and filled the space where explanation would have lived.

I had come to the lake to measure its depth changes after the thaw. It was work that required patience and a willingness to listen to what could not be rushed. Locals warned me not to stay out after dark. They said the water carried sound too well at night and sometimes kept it. I smiled and wrote careful notes and told myself water was only water.

You appeared on the far shore the first evening when the light drained slowly and the world learned blue. I saw you before I heard you a figure standing where the trees leaned inward as if conferring. When you crossed to my side your steps left no wake. You asked if the lake had spoken yet. I said no and felt foolish for answering seriously.

You did not cast a reflection. I noticed that later when the surface smoothed and held the sky without you. When I asked you looked down and said reflections were a kind of promise and not all promises were meant to be kept. I laughed and felt a tremor move through the water beneath the dock.

We walked the shoreline at dusk when insects quieted and the air cooled quickly. You told me stories that felt like memories the lake had misplaced. Of swimmers who listened too long. Of names carried far and returned altered. I listened and felt recognition stir where caution should have been.

The nights learned our rhythm. You came when the light fell and left before dawn. The lake changed when you arrived. Sound traveled farther. Small waves smoothed themselves. When you touched the water it held your fingers with a patience that frightened me. When you touched me it was careful and brief and the warmth lingered like a held breath.

The first time our hands met fully it was by accident or meant to feel that way. I reached to steady myself on wet boards and your hand closed around mine. The contact held and deepened. The lake stilled as if listening. You pulled away quickly and watched me with something like regret. I said nothing and learned how silence could bruise.

Days passed and my sleep thinned. I dreamed of voices sinking and waking clear. In the mornings my voice felt lighter as if some of it had stayed behind. When I spoke near the water my words seemed to travel farther than they should. You noticed and asked me to be careful. I promised and did not know how to keep it.

The cost arrived quietly. Food tasted distant. Conversations felt delayed. Sometimes when I called my own name softly it sounded unfamiliar. You stood farther away and spoke less. When I asked why you said the lake was listening more closely now.

One evening the wind dropped and the water turned dark and perfect. We stood at the end of the dock and the world felt held. You told me then that the lake was not only a place. It was a keeper. It gathered what was given freely and did not always give it back. Loving me had begun to teach it my voice.

I wanted to argue and instead I listened. I felt the truth settle into me like cold that seeps slowly. When I asked what would happen if we stayed you said the lake would keep more than echoes. It would keep me. I believed you because my words already felt thinner.

After that we practiced distance. You arrived later and left earlier. The lake grew louder at night and quieter when I spoke. I learned the ache of missing you before the shoreline emptied. Each dusk felt like rehearsal.

The final night came without warning. The sky closed in and the trees held their breath. We met at the dock and the water lay dark and waiting. You took my hands and this time the warmth held and spread and did not hurry. I felt the cost in the way my throat tightened and eased again.

We spoke slowly choosing words that could float. You told me that staying would teach the lake my name fully and then it would never stop calling. You said leaving now would hurt less than staying until I answered. I believed you because my voice already felt borrowed.

When I answered my voice shook once and steadied. I told you I would not ask you to stay if staying meant losing myself to the water. The silence that followed felt deep and merciful. You leaned close and whispered my name and the lake carried it away.

You stepped back and the dock creaked and then steadied. When you turned toward the trees the water rippled once and smoothed. I stood alone and listened to the absence settle.

Morning came pale and ordinary. The lake reflected the sky faithfully. I packed my instruments and spoke only when necessary. My voice returned slowly over time though it never sounded quite the same.

Sometimes at night when water lies perfectly still I hear a sound travel and not return. I listen and let it go keeping my words close and remembering the night the lake kept yours.