The Lake

The moon hung low, a ghostly sentinel over the quiet lake, its surface glassy like a forgotten memory. I stood at the edge, the chill in the damp air sinking into my bones. Alone, with only the whispering trees for company, I fiddled with the frayed sleeve of my jacket, the fabric a shroud for my restless thoughts.

“Why are you still here?” I muttered to the empty night, my voice a lonely echo swallowed by the void. The lake reflected my turmoil, each ripple a reminder of the life I had lost—the life I had taken. The weight of guilt gnawed at my insides, a ravenous beast, impossible to ignore.