The mist hung low over the surface of Blackwood Lake, a silvery veil weaving through the ancient pine trees that lined the shore. It was barely past dawn, and the air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine needles.
Thomas, a sixty-two-year-old retired forester, stood at the water's edge. He was a man carved from the very woods he loved—broad-shouldered, weathered, with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed silver beard. He wore his favorite faded green plaid shirt, a brown multi-pocket fishing vest, and scuffed leather boots that had seen decades of mud and water.
For Thomas, this lake was a sanctuary. He had cast his line into these waters long before the modern world decided to creep into the valley. He knelt down, quietly snapping the lid of his tackle box shut, savoring the absolute silence of the morning.
But the silence was not destined to last. The aggressive crunch of gravel under heavy footsteps signaled an incoming storm.