by the lake

The sun is low, the city can be seen across the water alongside its colourful reflection. Trees sway gently in the wind — a warm and soft air flow typical of early summer just before dusk. This is a common place where people come to relax and spend some time with their friends or family. And, it is not too busy, staying cozy during times like these.

I sit cross-legged near the lake — quite far from noisy groups — under the protection of the most majestic tree in the area. Birds are singing and flying above and beyond the horizon. I can hear their wings flapping in every direction, it makes me want to lie down listening to their song. But I am busy, doodling away their curves on my humming sketchpad. It flickers occasionally, but I love it. I think it's humming because I didn't change its old arcanic capacitor, but I find the atmosphere with this quiet buzz charming, so I'm keeping it until it becomes too unstable.

Four layers hover in front of me, the base layer is the lake itself, still and reflecting the world around. Above that, trees are towering, reaching heights the lake could never dream of; then a few figures — a couple sitting on a bench to the left, and halfway drawn kids, running and playing with a ball. But I always keep the birds on the upmost layer, even if they are in the air, because why would someone hide any one of these beautiful creatures behind anything, they are here for a reason.

I dip the stylus in the air, and the lake shimmers slightly, matching the motion. The scene starts to really mirror a reflection of the place. The tablet flickers again, responding to my movements and applying some pressure — it is finicky, but expressive. It is almost out of charge, the battery is old though, and some arcana still finds ways to leak out. I might need to rechannel the capacitor later to make sure the flow encounters no interference.

I hear a laughter at the bench, and the woman's laugh carries through the air a second after it has been heard. Not a real delay, not quite an echo either. It slides upwards, flowing in front of me and stopping at the top of the tree. It sounds like the leaves are softly laughing. Her partner says something I can't hear and then her voice trails after it — melodious, warped as if life itself was imbued in those words.,I pause my drawing and the pad dims, letting the slight wind guide the stylus for a moment. The flock flying above us is going in circles now, increasing its altitude, their arcs less grateful, more deliberate. One of them pierces down but lows just over the surface and flies away, dipping one wing into the water, scattering glints of sun light around it.

I hold my breath, waiting for the echo of the splash, but nothing comes. Maybe the trees are holding on to something tonight. They say sometimes the air does that when a spell thins out, leaving behind an unstable loop — nothing dangerous, just not settled.

Then a breeze rolls in from the water, unusually cold for the hour. My sketchpad hums louder in response, shivering as if it felt the drop in temperature, the curved lines of the newly drawn child breaking into a jagged arrangement of segments. I look around and see that the couple seems not to notice the cold flow.

But the birds — the birds have changed direction.

Back to less shivering skies