There once was a pilgrim who had heard of a lake so still that it could show you anything.
Your future. Your true path. The answer to the question you had not yet dared to ask.
He walked for days to reach it. And when the forest finally opened, there it lay, under the mountains and the moon.
Not a ripple.
Not a breath.
A mirror, waiting.
The pilgrim stepped onto the rocks at the edge of the water and leaned forward to see what the lake would show him.
It showed him a pilgrim.
A tired one. Muddy boots. A cloak worn thin at the hem. A shell on his pack. A staff that had seen better days. A face that had expected more.
He waited for the reflection to change. To become a vision, a sign, a destiny.
It did not. It only blinked when he blinked.
And slowly, the pilgrim understood.
Some places have nothing to show you
except the one who came looking.
And that is not nothing.
This is no oracle pool. No window into fate. No secret beneath the surface.
It is a lake. And you, standing at its edge.
Nothing more.
So, Traveler —
There is nobody here but you.
No vision.
No answer you did not bring yourself.
The lake has nothing to add.
Go home, pilgrim. Take yourself with you.
And the water, at last, was still again.