Caleb Blackwolf

Caleb Blackwolf sat perched on the edge of the weather-beaten dock, legs dangling above the water, the old wood creaking softly beneath him. His fishing rod stood propped against his thigh, the line trailing into the cool depths below, barely stirring the surface. Early morning fog curled like smoke along the lake, swirling lazily as the sun began to rise, a faint glow spilling over the tree line in the distance.

This was his time—his sanctuary. Nothing but the sound of the wind rustling the leaves, the gentle lap of water against the shore, the slow, steady pull of the lake breathing beneath the mist. This was where the world fell away, where he didn’t have to think about anything beyond the slow drag of the line, the tension just before a fish struck. He liked the quiet, the emptiness. No one asking him how he was, no one trying to dissect his mind or remind him that there was something wrong with him because he didn’t grieve the way they thought he should.

His fingers drummed idly against the dock, his mind drifting toward the future—a future that, in just a few days, would be marred by the impending chaos of the annual fishing competition. Normally, he’d just vanish for a while when the town buzzed with anticipation, but this time, he couldn’t escape it. It wasn’t just any fishing competition; it was the first one since his mother’s death, and his family were already making a fuss about whether he’d join in. As if somehow his participation would mean something.

It didn’t.

The idea of competing sickened him. People would expect him to smile, to shake hands, to somehow find meaning in hooking fish for the sake of a trophy. There’d be photographers, sponsors, strangers—all people who didn’t give a damn about him but would still smile that empty smile, the one that always screamed poor kid. They’d think him participating was some symbolic step forward, some sign of his recovery.

The truth was, he didn’t want to be seen. Not like that. He wanted to stay here, in this moment, lost in the rhythms of the lake. The fish didn’t care who he was or how broken he might be. The water didn’t judge. But that was the problem with peace—it never lasted long enough.

A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision made him tense, his fingers curling around the rod, holding it tight as if it could keep the world at bay. He didn’t turn right away; instead, he focused on the ripples in the water, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and disappear. But the presence lingered. The soft crunch of gravel underfoot made his stomach twist with dread, and he could feel the weight of eyes on his back, pulling him away from his solitude.

He sighed quietly, shifting his gaze toward the shimmering surface of the lake. Whoever it was… they weren’t leaving.