Chapter 1: Cabin by the Lake.
Harlan County, Alaska – February
The plane banked low over a vast sea of white, its wings cutting through clouds like a blade through frost. Lucas Wright leaned closer to the window, his breath fogging the glass. Below, endless pine forests blanketed in snow stretched to the horizon, broken only by black ribbons of frozen rivers and the occasional glint of lake ice catching the sun like a shard of glass.
No buildings. No traffic. No buzzing phones or office chatter. Just silence. The kind of silence that pressed against your ribs and made you feel small.
He liked it.
This wasn't just a trip. It was an escape—an unceremonious exit from a life that had become too loud, too fast, too… hollow.
Lucas was thirty-one and already tired. Not from age, but from everything that came with pretending to care about things he didn't. Office politics. Shallow friendships. Weekly performance metrics. The apartment that never felt like home. The city that never truly slept—and never let him sleep, either.
Then the letter had come. A legal notice, oddly elegant in its phrasing.
To Mr. Lucas Elliott Wright.
We regret to inform you of the passing of Mr. Henry Wright. Your grandfather. The following property has been transferred to your name: Parcel 61-4B, Mirror Lake Cabin, Harlan County, Alaska…
That was all it took. A thread pulling him back to something forgotten. A memory of summers long past: learning to bait hooks with trembling fingers, the warm rumble of his grandfather's laugh, the quiet wisdom in the man's eyes.
Lucas didn't hesitate. He booked a one-way flight within the week.
Now here he was, stepping off a twin-prop plane onto a frozen gravel airstrip in the middle of nowhere.
"Sure you're good, buddy?" the pilot asked, eyeing him through thick goggles. "Not many folks head into Harlan in February."
Lucas adjusted his knit cap. "Yeah. I'm good."
The man shrugged and climbed back into the cockpit. The plane rumbled away, disappearing into the white sky.
Lucas stood alone, the wind cutting across the runway like a knife. His breath rose in steady clouds. A truck waited nearby, engine idling—his grandfather's old Chevy. Rust around the wheel wells, a cracked headlight, and a bumper sticker that read 'Keep it simple, keep it wild.'
He climbed in and turned the heat up. The keys fit like they'd been waiting for him.
The road—or what passed for one—was narrow and half-buried under snow. Trees crowded in close, their limbs heavy with frost. Occasionally a raven burst from the branches overhead, cawing like it had somewhere better to be.
Lucas didn't mind the rough ride. It reminded him he was far, far from where he used to be.
No signal. No GPS. Just coordinates jotted on a piece of notepaper and the fading trail of memory.
The cabin appeared just as the sun began to lower, bleeding pale gold across the sky. It stood at the edge of Mirror Lake, its reflection stretched across the frozen surface like a painting on glass. Made from dark cedar logs and capped with a slanted tin roof, it looked sturdy. Weathered by time, but still standing proud.
Lucas stepped onto the porch. The boards creaked beneath his boots, but didn't break. He slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open.
The scent hit him first—dry wood, old leather, and faint traces of campfire smoke.
The interior was simple: a woodstove in the center, dusty shelves, a patched couch, and a single framed photo by the window. It showed him, age ten, holding up a trout with a proud, gap-toothed grin. His grandfather stood behind him, hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
Lucas stared at it for a long time before setting his duffel down.
He didn't unpack. Not yet. He lit the stove first, fed it kindling until the flames caught, then sat cross-legged by the window, watching the lake.
It was silent.
No birds. No wind. No movement.
Then—just barely—he saw it.
A ripple.
Not a trick of light. Not wind. A real, honest ripple across the ice near the center of the lake.
He blinked. It was gone.
Lucas leaned forward. Had something fallen in? No… the lake was frozen solid.
Wasn't it?
The silence seemed to deepen. A hum, not audible but felt in the bones, like the moment before a storm.
Then, just at the edge of his vision, something flickered.
A shimmer. Pale blue. A whisper not heard but understood.
[Initializing: Fishing System…]
[Welcome, Lucas Wright. Your journey begins.]
He flinched.
The message lingered for just a heartbeat—then faded.
Lucas turned from the window, back toward the now-crackling fire. He wasn't scared. Not exactly.
But something told him that silence in Harlan County wasn't just silence.
It was listening back.