The Still Hour

A quiet lake stretches out under a clear blue sky, its surface dappled with lily pads and delicate blooms—white, pink, yellow—like scattered thoughts drifting in the sun. 

Around it, tall grasses lean gently, and trees in full autumn dress crowd the edges, their leaves glowing in every shade of fire and gold. Some still cling to green, reluctant to let go. 

The air feels crisp, but the light is warm, casting soft reflections and shadows that ripple with the breeze. It’s the kind of place that holds its breath, waiting for someone to notice how still and alive it is. 

In the corner, a small “AK” signature whispers that someone already did.