A euphoric heat pulsed through its limbs and flooded its higher self with something akin to hope—a sensation it had nearly forgotten during the long, cold silence. Its tentacles writhed through the silt with trembling urgency, each movement sending clouds of mud billowing upward like the creature's own rising expectations. A delirious, electric joy sparked through neural pathways that had lain dormant for so long, overwhelming its capacity for caution. What humans might call ecstasy—that desperate, aching hunger for connection—set its ancient synapses ablaze with longing.
The possibility that the visitor might bestrangerrather thanfriendnever penetrated its yearning consciousness. For decades, only its beloved companion had walked these shores—and later, the small boy with identical footfalls. Now, despite the crushing weight of intuition that whispered its friend had passed beyond reach, the creature ascended with desperate, aching need toward the surface, toward the promise of connection it could not bear to relinquish.
His grandpa’s old pickup truck slowly climbed the last steep part of the dirt road, struggling for a moment before reaching the top, with the old frame rattling loudly. The mid-afternoon sun, still high in the sky, shone directly into Graham's eyes, momentarily blinding him as the truck moved out of the trees onto the flat, once-dusty driveway—now covered in grass—leading to the cabin.
He parked the pickup beside the small dwelling and turned off the engine. Though he hadn’t been to the lake in nearly ten years, a wave of nostalgia washed over Graham as he looked out at the water. His memories of the lake were few and scattered, yet he felt a strong sense ofhome, of…belonging. He didn’t remember much about his childhood visits to the lake, but he knew they were some of the best times he’d spent with his grandpa.
While most of his memories were hazy, one stood out clearly: his grandpa sitting in his old rocker on the cabin porch, gazing out over the peaceful surface of the lake, his aging face, etched with the wisdom of years, wearing a tender, almost loving expression—as if something precious and extraordinary lay hidden beneath the lake’s tranquil depths, something that resonated with his soul.
Graham wasn’t ready for the emotion that hit him hard. His eyes suddenly teared up, and a deep ache pierced his heart. For the past two years, since his grandpa died, he’d been running from his grief. He threw himself into school activities, hung out with friends, and even got involved with a nice girl who was new to their school—anything but think about his Grandpa Quinn.
Resting his face in his hand, Graham cried for the first time since the funeral. Guilt mixed with grief, and he cried harder. Being at the lake somehow brought everything to a head— the sorrow, the hurt, theloss. The fullrealizationthat his grandpa—hisbest friend—wasgone.
Lifting his head, the lake blurred before him through the truck’s dusty windshield. Graham used some old napkins to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. He cleared his throat and looked at the box sitting in the passenger seat. Inside were the storybooks his grandpa had given him, a brass urn with his grandpa’s ashes… and the deed to the lake property, left to Graham in his grandfather’s will.
Along with the property deed, Quinn left his grandson two additional items: his unpublished manuscripts and his personal journals. The will specified that Graham could publish the manuscripts if he chose, but the journals were to be kept private. Quinn’s financial savings—which turned out to be substantial—were divided between Graham and his parents, who neither objected to nor challenged the rest of the will. They had no interest in the lake property and understood why Quinn had decided to leave it to Graham.
The money and deed were legally handed over to Graham on his eighteenth birthday, just a week ago. That’s when it truly started to sink in that his grandfather was gone. Being at the lake now made it hit home with painful clarity.
After two years of avoiding memories of his grandpa, everything flooded back as soon as he drove over that rise andsaw the lake. The memories of his childhood summers spent at the lake might be fuzzy, but the recollection of how much he lovedbeing therewith his grandpa was as clear as day.
Graham sniffed, cleared his throat again, and climbed out of the truck. He walked around to the passenger side, retrieved the box, carried it to the cabin porch, and placed it in his grandpa’s old rocking chair while unlocking the door. He paused for a long moment, hand resting on the doorknob. A tightness in his chest caused a light pinch as his throat clenched. He looked back at the lake, where a faint ripple now disturbed the surface, which had been as smooth as glass a moment ago.
Swallowing thickly, Graham opened the door, then picked up the box and entered the cabin.
Almost four years had gone by since his grandfather last visited the cabin, but the faint smell of his pipe tobacco still lingered in the stale air, a scent as nostalgic as the cabin itself. Graham couldn’t remember his grandpa ever smoking his pipe anywhere but at the cabin, but the aroma was always with him.
Graham placed the box on the small table and looked around the cabin, eyes misting. The place feltlonelywithout the man who had loved it so much. Was that possible? Could an inanimate dwelling project loneliness?
You miss him… that’s why it feels lonely.
Graham opened the box and gently lifted the urn, placing it on the table as his grandfather’s dying words echoed in his mind:‘When I’m gone, Graham, take me home to my lake… spread my ashes over the water. It’s where I want to be laid to rest.’
“You’re home, Grandpa.” His chin trembled. “I’m sorry it took me so long, but you’re home now.”I’m home. The thought rippled through him with a light shiver, unsure where it came from. Graham had no plans tostaythere; he came to fulfill his grandfather’s final wish. He would look after the place, but…
His eyes wandered to the front window and the lake beyond. The water shimmered as if a gentle breeze moved across the surface, though there was no breeze when Graham stepped out of the pickup. He moved closer to the window, captivated by the water, almost drawn in by it.
Was it really such a stretch to picture spending his summers at the cabin? He had friends, a girlfriend, yet there was always something inside him that longed for peace and… solitude. Often, when hanging out with his friends or Wendy, he caught himself wanting to go home and be alone in his room. Since his grandpa passed away, he had fought that urge because he didn’t want to think about things that hurt, and being around others helped distract him. But lately, the need for solitude had been growing—like somethingpullingat him. Even alone in his room, it still wasn’t enough.
But it is… here.
Was it the same for his grandpa? Had he also yearned for solitude? Something about this place had given him a sense of peace—so much so that he seemedin lovewith it. That was the only way Graham knew how to describe the expression on his grandfather’s face when he would sit and gaze out at the lake: a look of pure, heartfeltlove.
Behind the cabin, Graham found the generator and removed the tarp. It still seemed to be in good shape. He grabbed a gas can from the pickup, filled the tank, and after a few attempts, the generator rumbled to life. His grandpa mainly used the generator to power his refrigerator and freezer, cooked on a gas stove, and preferred oil lamps and gas lanterns over electric lights.
Though his grandpa was a writer, Graham had never seen him use a computer to write his stories. He either wrote by hand or used one of the old typewriters that required ink ribbons. One of those typewriters sat on his small desk inside the cabin. Graham once asked him why he didn’t use a computer to write, since they were more efficient for editing and could store one’s work online for safekeeping. His grandpa said that there was something morepersonalabout writing a story by hand or using the old-style typewriters. He felt more connected to his stories that way.
Graham could relate. He caught the writing bug in his mid-teens, a couple of years before his grandpa passed away, and often jotted down his story ideas and the first chapters by hand.
With the generator running, Graham unloaded a couple of coolers from the truck—one filled with soda and beer, the other with food—and carried them into the cabin, stocking the fridge and freezer. He made a sandwich, grabbed a soda, and went out onto the porch to eat. As a kid, he and his grandpa often ate on the porch, looking out over the lake.
Sitting on the porch step, Graham looked at the urn he’d placed beside him. “I miss you, grandpa.” His stomach tightened at the thought of food, and he left half the sandwich untouched. A knot formed in his throat. “I should’ve spent more time with you.” He swallowed hard. “I never told you, but I was really mad at my parents when they stopped letting me come up here with you. When you weren’t around, they told me I needed more friends my own age.” He sniffed. “When I stopped talking about… being gay… they never brought it up again. And neither did you. I guess it was easier for me to believe, as they did, that it was just a phase. Even Ryan started being friends with me again when I showed interest in girls, though we were never as close as before.”
Graham sighed and tipped his soda can to his lips, swallowing the rest of his drink. He sniffed and rubbed his nose as he looked at the lake. An ache pinched his heart.
“When we started high school,” he murmured, “Ryan still side-eyed me a bit, like he still wasn’t sure about me, even though it had been over three years since I’d tried holding his hand.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “We wereten years old, then, for crying out loud. But he still…” Graham cleared his throat. “He started making light homophobic comments now and then, playing it off as jokes. But it felt like he was testing me, to see how I would react. I never took the bait and mostly just ignored him.” He released a long breath. “He’s still part of my friend group, but it doesn’t feel like we’re really friends. I used to be sad about that, but now…” He exhaled again. “…I don’t know. I don’t think it matters anymore.”
They had all just graduated from high school, and most of them would be heading to different colleges. Graham didn’t expect any of them to stay close friends. Although his parents urged him to go to college too, Graham was thinking about taking a year off from “school” to figure out what he wanted from life. The money his grandpa left him was enough to support his break. He’d felt unsettled since his grandpa’s death, and nothing seemed to fill the emptiness inside him. The idea of going to college, being around people every day, and having to focus on his studies… it made him feel sick in a way he couldn’t explain. All he knew was that it wasn’t what he wanted right now.
