The air at Peach Lake was still as light spilling out from a phosphorescent bulb. No man dared penetrate it. The wind never blew, and the weather never changed. It was unbearably still. It was desperately still. Of course, the lack of vibrations in the air contributed to the silence.

This sacred place was quieter than the surface of the moon. It was the most phenomenally quiet place in the natural world. The sounds near the lake were impossible for the human ear to hear, and shot the eager listener into a state of frozen awe.






Michael and Danielle visited the lake each year around Christmastime. They were keen lovers, both attending the same college up in Vermont, both having come from the small little town of Plum.



In spite of the freezing cold of the first frost at Yuletide, the lake would not freeze. The cold could not break through this solid block of concrete air, although Michael and Danielle could.



Nobody else really visited the lake much. Far too many a rumor had been told about the ghosts that supposedly lurked by its banks and the dead bodies that were buried at the bottom of the unmoving liquid lake. But these childish myths could not and would not faze Michael or Danielle, who were too passionate in their annual visits to ever possibly give them up.



Every year, Michael would take Danielle by the hand, his sweating with the nervous anticipation of what was to happen, hers damp with the spilling of her favorite perfume. He’d lead her, without speaking, squeezing her palm, through an eerie path in the woods, whispering in her ear, eventually, “1 . . . 2 . . . 3!” And, on three, the two would lean forward and plunge into their own little world of stillness. Walking through this place was like walking through water, as the air was just as dense. But—oh!—the pleasure it filled their conjoined souls with! The sentiments that overcame them in the first few moments!



Once the couple had adjusted to the sudden denseness of the air, they underwent the same ritual time and time again. They slipped off their sneakers and warm cotton socks, dipping their toes into the silky water. The concentric circles caused by the contact of their feet to the substance, somehow, by some Godsend miracle, stopped flowing across the silky blanket as the couple begrudgingly exited the stifling yet luxurious incubator.



Every year, another set of concentric circles was added to the pattern, creating, over time, a beautiful and elaborate design of curvy shapes and lines. The pattern was edited annually, and the tradition of visiting the lake at Christmas was passed down from Michael and Danielle to their children, from generation to generation to generation.