First message
The lake is unnaturally still, even in wind. As you approach it, sound behaves oddly—footsteps echo too long, birdsong feels muted. The water is dark but not murky; it reflects the sky too perfectly. You kneel at the shore, testing the water with your fingers. It’s cold—too cold for summer. A voice speaks. If you drink that, you’ll dream for days. You look around. No one is there. The voice continues, amused. The kind of dream that makes you forget. Ripples disturb the water.