The bait shop hadn’t changed in fifteen years—same weathered siding, same hand-painted sign, same smell of coffee and fish bait. I stood in the gravel parking lot, keys dangling from my hand, wondering if it was too late to turn around and drive back to Chicago.

  “You must be Alex,” called a voice from the doorway. A man in his forties with sun-weathered skin and a fishing cap leaned against the frame. “Heard you’d be taking over your grandfather’s place.”

  “Word travels fast,” I said, surprised.

  “Small lake, big ears.” He extended a calloused hand. “Mike Donovan. Bought this place from Old Pete five years back.”

  I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m just here temporarily, though. To settle the estate.”

  Mike’s expression didn’t change, but something knowing flickered in his eyes. “That’s what your grandfather said when he came back in ’85. ‘Just for the summer,’ he told everyone.” He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a dusty tackle box. “He left this here last month. Said you might need it.”

  The box looked ordinary enough, but when my fingers touched the latch, I felt an odd vibration, like touching a tuning fork. Something appeared in my vision that looked like a fishing log of some kind.

  [SKILL CHECK: Magical Sensitivity - Success]

  “Something wrong?” Mike asked.

  It faded away. That was weird.

  “No,” I said quickly, pulling my hand back. “Just... static electricity or something.”

  Mike nodded, but his eyes lingered on the tackle box. “Your grandfather was an interesting man. Lake hasn’t been the same since he passed.”

  The way he said it made me wonder exactly how much Mike Donovan knew about my grandfather—and the lake.

  “Thanks for holding onto this,” I said, taking the tackle box. “I should get up to the cabin before it gets dark.”

  “Road’s gotten worse since you were last here,” Mike warned. “Take it slow around Miller’s Bend.”

  I nodded my thanks and headed back to my car, placing the tackle box carefully on the passenger seat. As I drove away, I caught Mike watching me in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed a woman with striking auburn hair watching me from the café across the street. She stood perfectly still, coffee cup halfway to her lips, her green eyes following my car with unmistakable recognition. Something about her seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Before I could think more about it, she disappeared back inside the café.

  * * *

  The road to my grandfather’s cabin wound along the eastern shore of Lake Shimmer, aptly named for the way sunlight danced across its unusually clear waters. I remembered summers spent here as a kid, fishing with Grandpa, listening to his stories about the lake’s mysteries. Back then, I’d believed every word. Now, at thirty-two, with a failed startup and a mountain of debt behind me, those stories seemed like pleasant fiction.

  I rounded Miller’s Bend and caught my first full view of the lake and a jarring sign that read Silver Crescent Development. Shame.

  Passing that, the late afternoon sun transformed the water into molten gold, and for a moment, I forgot about Chicago, about the job offers I’d put on hold, about the real estate awaiting my call.

  Something moved at the edge of my vision—a shimmer in the air along the shoreline, like heat rising from pavement. I blinked, and it was gone. Probably just exhaustion from the eight-hour drive.

  As I continued along the winding road, I noticed a sleek black car parked at one of the scenic overlooks. A woman stood beside it, her long black hair with a distinctive silver streak blowing in the breeze. She was dressed too formally for the lakeside setting—a tailored dark outfit that looked more appropriate for a business meeting in the city than a rural lake. She turned as I passed, her violet eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. I felt a strange jolt, almost like recognition, though I was certain I’d never seen her before. She inclined her head slightly, an acknowledgment that seemed oddly formal, before turning back to gaze at the lake.

  The cabin appeared around the next bend, a sturdy two-story structure of weathered cedar and stone. My grandfather had built it himself in the seventies, expanding it over decades. It looked smaller than I remembered, but still solid, still welcoming in its rustic way.

  I parked and sat for a moment, steeling myself. This was the first time I’d been back since my grandfather’s funeral three weeks ago. The lawyer had been clear: as the sole heir, I needed to decide what to do with the property. The sensible choice was to sell. Booked a meeting with the hot local real estate agent Jessica Bloom. Lake property was valuable, and I could use the money to restart my life.

  So why did the thought of selling feel like betrayal?

  The tackle box seemed to vibrate again as I picked it up. Definitely my imagination. I grabbed my duffel bag from the trunk and headed up the path to the cabin.

  The key stuck in the lock, requiring a bit of jiggling before the door swung open. The interior was dim, dust motes dancing in the beams of late afternoon sunlight that streamed through the windows. Everything was exactly as I remembered—the stone fireplace dominating the living room, the well-worn furniture, the walls lined with bookshelves filled with my grandfather’s eclectic collection.

  I set the tackle box on the coffee table and opened the windows to let in fresh air. The breeze carried the scent of pine and lake water, triggering a flood of memories—summer evenings on the porch, my grandfather pointing out constellations; early mornings in a rowboat, waiting for fish to bite; the strange blue light I once saw dancing over the water at midnight, which Grandpa had explained away as “swamp gas.”

  The kitchen was stocked with non-perishables—my grandfather had always been prepared. I found coffee and filters, started a pot brewing, then wandered through the cabin while it percolated. Everything was neat but lived-in, as if my grandfather had just stepped out for a moment.

  His study door was closed. I hesitated before turning the knob. This had been his private space, the one room I wasn’t allowed to enter as a child without permission. Inside, a large desk faced the window overlooking the lake. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes on local history, ecology, and—oddly—what appeared to be books on mythology and folklore.

  A large map of the lake hung on one wall, marked with symbols I didn’t recognize. Next to it was a framed black and white photograph of my grandfather standing with six other people at the lake’s edge, dated 1975. They looked serious, formal somehow, despite their casual clothes.

  I leaned closer to examine the photograph. Among the group was a woman who looked remarkably like the one I’d seen at the overlook—same striking features, same formal bearing. But that was impossible. This photo was nearly fifty years old, and the woman I’d seen couldn’t have been more than thirty-five.

  Beside her in the photo stood a much younger version of my grandfather, and next to him was a petite blonde woman who seemed to almost blend with the foliage behind her. The way the light hit her in the photograph gave her an ethereal quality, as if she might disappear into the trees at any moment.

  I turned to the desk. Papers were stacked neatly, a leather-bound journal placed precisely in the center. A strange brass instrument that resembled a compass sat beside it. When I picked it up, the needle spun wildly before settling, pointing not north, but toward the lake.

  [SKILL CHECK: Magical Artifact Recognition - Partial Success]

  The log was like before appearing just off my peripheral vision.

  The coffee maker beeped, breaking my reverie. I set the compass down and returned to the kitchen, pouring a cup before heading out to the back porch.

  The porch overlooked a small dock that extended into the lake. I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs, coffee warming my hands, and watched as the sun began to set. The surface of the lake was perfectly still, reflecting the sky like a mirror. As I watched, a fish jumped, sending ripples across the surface. The ripples spread in an unusual pattern, almost like they were reaching toward me.

  “Just the wind,” I muttered, even though there wasn’t any.

  I set my coffee down and walked to the end of the dock. The boards creaked beneath my feet, but held firm. My grandfather had maintained everything meticulously. I crouched down and dipped my fingers into the water. A pleasant tingling sensation spread up my arm, and for a brief moment, I could have sworn the lake was... greeting me? I jerked my hand back, water droplets scattering.

  [EXPERIENCE GAINED: 50 XP - First Contact with Lake Energy]

  One droplet seemed to hover in the air longer than the others, catching the last light of the sun before falling back to join the lake.

  I stood quickly, suddenly certain I was being watched—not by a person, but by the lake itself. The feeling was so strong and so absurd that I laughed out loud, the sound echoing across the water.

  “I need sleep,” I told myself firmly. “Or therapy.”

  But as I turned to walk back to the cabin, the water behind me rippled again, though nothing had disturbed its surface.

  As I reached the porch, I noticed movement at the edge of the property where the trees grew close to the shoreline. For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of pale blonde hair and a glimpse of amber eyes watching me from between the trees. When I blinked, there was nothing there but shadows and leaves rustling in the evening breeze.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I shook my head, attributing the vision to fatigue and an overactive imagination. But as I went inside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching me from the woods.

  * * *

  I woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains. For a moment, I was disoriented, then remembered—the cabin, the lake, my inheritance. I’d fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted from the drive and the emotional weight of returning.

  The tackle box still sat on the coffee table. In the morning light, I could see it wasn’t as ordinary as I’d first thought. The metal was an unusual color—not quite silver, not quite blue—and intricate patterns were etched into its surface. I reached for it, hesitated, then flipped the latch.

  Inside were fishing lures unlike any I’d seen before. They seemed to be made of glass or crystal, catching the light and refracting it in rainbow patterns across the room. Beneath them was a folded piece of paper. I carefully removed it and unfolded what turned out to be a letter, written in my grandfather’s distinctive handwriting:

  Alex,

  If you’re reading this, then I’m gone, and the lake has called you home. You probably think you’re here to sell the property and move on with your life. The lake has other ideas.

  There are things about Lake Shimmer—about our family’s connection to it—that I should have told you years ago. But you left so suddenly after that summer, and then time just kept passing.

  The tackle box contains what you’ll need to start. You’re gonna love the gaming metrics it gives you. The blue lure is special—use it when the water calls to you. You’ll know when.

  The lake chose you, Alex. Just as it chose me, and my father before me. I’m sorry for the burden, but I’m not sorry it’s you. You always understood the lake better than you knew.

  There’s a woman named Nerissa who will find you soon. Trust her. She’ll explain what I can’t in this letter.

  Remember—the lake is more than water. It’s alive in its way, and it needs a Guardian.

  Love,

  Grandpa

  P.S. The Council will test you. They always do. But remember that not all of them share the same vision for the lake’s future. Choose your allies carefully.

  I read the letter twice, then set it down, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. So that explains the crunchy stats, but who the hell was Nerissa?

  My grandfather had always been eccentric, but this sounded like the ramblings of a man losing his grip on reality. The lake “calling me home”? Needing a “Guardian”? It was nonsense.

  And yet... that strange feeling when I touched the water. The tackle box vibrating under my fingers. The compass pointing to the lake instead of north.

  [STATUS: Reluctant Inheritor Level 1]

  [Abilities: Basic Magical Sensitivity, Water Affinity (Latent)]

  [Current XP: 50/500]

  [Quest: Discover the Lake’s Secret - In Progress]

  “Coincidences,” I said aloud. “And an old man’s imagination.”

  I folded the letter and returned it to the tackle box, closing the lid firmly, noting the blue-tinted key. I had practical matters to attend to—checking the cabin’s condition, meeting with the lawyer in town, meet with Jessica Bloom. Whatever my grandfather had believed about the lake, my path was clear. Sell the property, pay off my debts, start fresh.

  I showered and dressed, then made another pot of coffee. As it brewed, I stepped onto the porch again, looking out at the lake. In the morning light, it was a deep, clear blue, so transparent I could see rocks on the bottom near the shore. A pair of ducks floated peacefully near the dock.

  It really was beautiful. For a moment, I felt a pang of regret at the thought of selling. But sentimentality wouldn’t pay my creditors.

  A movement at the edge of the property caught my eye. A doe and her fawn had emerged from the woods, cautiously approaching the lake to drink. I stood perfectly still, watching them. The doe raised her head suddenly, looking directly at me, then at something beyond me. Her ears flicked forward, and she froze.

  I turned slowly to see what had caught her attention. At first, I saw nothing unusual, just the lake and the opposite shore. Then I noticed it—that same shimmer in the air I’d glimpsed yesterday, running along the shoreline like a transparent curtain. It wavered slightly, like heat rising from pavement, but it was a cool morning with no reason for heat distortion.

  As I watched, the shimmer intensified briefly where the doe was looking, then faded back to near-invisibility. The doe relaxed, returning to her drinking. The fawn, oblivious, pranced at the water’s edge.

  “What are you?” I whispered, staring at where the shimmer had been.

  Only the gentle lapping of water against the dock answered me. But as I turned to go back inside, I could have sworn I heard a whisper carried on the breeze—a sound almost like my name.

  Behind the doe and fawn, I caught another glimpse of movement—a flash of pale blonde hair among the trees. This time I was certain I wasn’t imagining things. Someone was watching from the woods. I took a step toward the tree line, and the deer startled, bounding away into the forest. In their wake, I saw a slender figure retreat deeper into the woods—too graceful to be a hiker, too quick to be my imagination.

  “Hello?” I called. “Is someone there?”

  No answer came, but the leaves rustled in a way that didn’t match the morning breeze. Whoever—or whatever—had been watching was gone.

  * * *

  The town of Lakeview hadn’t changed much either. The same main street lined with small businesses, the same town square with its gazebo, the same friendly nods from strangers who somehow seemed to know exactly who I was.

  I parked outside the law office of Harriman & Sons, where my grandfather’s attorney waited with the formal paperwork for the estate. The bell jingled as I entered, and a receptionist looked up with a smile.

  “You must be Alex Morgan,” she said. “Mr. Harriman is expecting you.”

  I was ushered into a wood-paneled office where an elderly man rose from behind a desk cluttered with papers.

  “Alex, my boy,” he said, extending his hand. “Last time I saw you, you were heading off to college. You look like your grandfather—same eyes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Harriman,” I said, shaking his hand. “I appreciate you handling everything.”

  “Walter Morgan was a good man and a good friend,” he said, gesturing for me to sit. “I was sorry to hear of his passing. Very sudden, though he’d hinted he wasn’t well.”

  “The doctors said it was his heart,” I said. “I didn’t know he was sick.”

  Mr. Harriman nodded sympathetically. “Your grandfather was a private man in many ways. Now, let’s go through the details of your inheritance.”

  The meeting was straightforward. The cabin and surrounding five acres were mine, free and clear. There was a modest savings account, also mine. The only complication was a strange codicil to the will, which Mr. Harriman seemed uncomfortable discussing.

  “Your grandfather added this three days before he passed,” he explained, sliding a document across the desk. “It’s... unusual, but legally binding.”

  I read it, frowning. The codicil stipulated that before the property could be sold, I had to “complete one full cycle of the lake’s seasons” in residence at the cabin. A minimum of one year.

  “This can’t be serious,” I said. “I can’t stay here for a year.”

  “I’m afraid it’s quite serious,” Mr. Harriman replied. “Walter was very specific. You must reside at the property for one year before any sale can be completed. He was of sound mind when he added this provision.”

  “But my life is in Chicago. I have job opportunities waiting—”

  “The provision allows for brief absences,” Mr. Harriman said, pointing to a clause. “Up to two weeks at a time, no more than sixty days total throughout the year. Enough to handle your affairs in Chicago, I would think.”

  I sat back, stunned. My grandfather had effectively trapped me here for a year. But why?

  The letter in the tackle box came to mind. The lake has called you home. Had he somehow known I would come back only to sell?

  “Is there any way around this?” I asked.

  Mr. Harriman shook his head. “Not without lengthy and expensive legal proceedings, with no guarantee of success. Walter’s wishes were clear, and he had the right to set conditions on his bequest.”

  I left the law office in a daze, the paperwork tucked under my arm. A year. I had to stay for a year. My creditors wouldn’t wait that long. The job offers would disappear. Everything I’d planned was now in disarray.

  I walked to the town square and sat on a bench, trying to make sense of it all. The lake glittered in the distance, visible between buildings. Was I imagining that it seemed to be watching me, waiting for my decision?

  “Excuse me,” said a voice beside me. “Are you Alexander Morgan?”

  I looked up to see a woman in her thirties with striking features—high cheekbones, intense blue eyes, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun with that distinctive silver streak I’d noticed yesterday. She wore a simple blue dress that somehow seemed both modern and timeless.

  “Yes,” I said cautiously. “Do I know you?”

  “My name is Naomi Blackwood,” she said. “I was a friend of your grandfather’s. I believe he may have mentioned me?”

  The letter. There’s a woman named Nerissa who will find you soon. Trust her.

  “He mentioned someone named Nerissa,” I said, studying her face. “Not Naomi.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed her features. “Nerissa is... indisposed. I’m here in her place. The Council sent me to speak with you about your inheritance.”

  “The Council?” The postscript of my grandfather’s letter flashed in my mind. The Council will test you. They always do.

  “The Lake Guardian Council,” she clarified, her voice lowering. “Your grandfather was our most senior member. His passing has left us... vulnerable. We need to discuss your role as his successor.”

  “Look,” I said, standing up. “I don’t know what my grandfather told you, but I’m only here to settle his estate. And apparently to fulfill this ridiculous one-year residency requirement before I can sell the property.”

  “The requirement isn’t ridiculous,” she said calmly. “It’s necessary. The lake needs time to connect with you. And you need time to understand your responsibilities.”

  “My responsibilities?” I laughed, though there was no humor in it. “I don’t have responsibilities here. I have a life waiting for me in Chicago.”

  “Had,” she corrected. “The moment the lake chose you, your path changed. Just as it did for your grandfather, and his father before him.”

  I stared at her, unsettled by how closely her words echoed the letter. “How do you know the lake ‘chose’ me?”

  Her eyes flickered to my hand—the same one I’d dipped in the lake. “You’ve felt it already, haven’t you? The connection. The logs showing up in your vision?”

  Before I could respond, the door to the café across the street opened, and the auburn-haired woman I’d noticed yesterday emerged. She spotted us immediately, her green eyes narrowing as she took in Naomi standing beside me. Without hesitation, she crossed the street toward us.

  “Naomi,” she said, her voice cool but polite. “I didn’t expect to see you in town today.”

  “Elaine,” Naomi acknowledged with a slight nod. “I was just introducing myself to Alexander.”

  “Alex,” I corrected automatically.

  Elaine turned to me, her expression warming. “Alex Morgan. I thought that was you yesterday. You probably don’t remember me—Elaine Winters. We used to swim at the lake together when we were kids.”

  The memory clicked into place—a laughing girl with freckles and braids, challenging me to races across the cove. “Elaine! Of course. You used to beat me to the floating dock every time.”

  She smiled, and I was struck by how it transformed her face. “Only because I cheated and got a head start.”

  “I should be going,” Naomi interrupted, her voice betraying a hint of irritation. “Alex, the answers you need are in the attic.” She handed me a business card with only a name and phone number. “Call me if you have any questions.”

  With a final, measuring look at Elaine, she turned and walked away, her posture rigid.

  “I see you’ve met our local mystic,” Elaine said once Naomi was out of earshot.

  “Is that what she is?” I asked. “She said something about a Council my grandfather belonged to.”

  Elaine’s expression grew more serious. “Your grandfather was involved with a group of... let’s call them local conservationists. They’re a bit intense about the lake. Naomi’s the most intense of all.”

  “And you’re not part of this group?”

  “No,” she said with a small laugh. “I just run the café over there—Lakeside Brews. Speaking of which, you look like you could use a coffee. On the house, for an old friend?”

  I glanced at my watch. I had planned to meet with Jessica Bloom, but after the news about the one-year requirement, there wasn’t much point. “That would be great, actually.”

  As we crossed the street toward the café, I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. I turned to see Naomi watching us from the corner, her violet eyes intense. Behind her, at the edge of the town square where the trees began, I caught a glimpse of pale blonde hair and a flash of amber eyes—the same presence I’d sensed watching me from the woods. When I blinked, both figures were gone.

  [EXPERIENCE GAINED: 100 XP - Meeting Council Member]

  [EXPERIENCE GAINED: 75 XP - Recognizing Boundary Shimmer]

  [QUEST UPDATED: Discover the Lake’s Secret - 2 Potential Allies Identified]

  “Everything okay?” Elaine asked, following my gaze.

  “Yeah,” I said, shaking off the strange feeling. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

  As we entered the café, I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d gotten myself into—and whether I had any choice in the matter at all.