For the first time, Libby didn’t write her name in the visitor’s log by the trailhead. She wasn’t rebellious — had even known the friend of a friend who was saved thanks to the simple action of recording his name — but that afternoon, so sunny and warm, Libby wanted only to ascend to the lake in anonymity. Her hike ended without tragedy, and the lake shone pristine, but one by one, the people she’d known since childhood ignored her, forgot her, until her face and her name evaporated from their hearts. She returned to the lake many times over; each visit it grew larger, its liquid voice deeper, rippled by the fingers of unwritten winds.



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