The cold is gone. The only sound, the gentle lap of water against the old aluminum boat. I’m sitting next to Dad, wrapped in my big blue coat, breathing in the smell of fresh, lake air and steaming hot coffee from the thermos, fighting to keep my eyes open. We’re on the big lake, the one we always come to in the winter holidays. The water is still and silver beneath the pre-dawn sky and nothing in the world seems to be awake with us, nothing moves. We got up so early and hiked up from the camp site–it was still dark enough to need the big, heavy flashlight–and I was yawning all the way.

  I hear his voice, crystal clear like the glassy water; Dad says, "Go to sleep, kiddo. You’re no good to me half-asleep." I don’t need another invitation. I sleep right there in the boat while Dad just sits and does what Dads do. He’s quiet, always quiet when there’s nothing to say so I listen when he tells me things. Hearing his voice is like rain. When I finally open my eyes an hour later, feeling stiff but strangely peaceful, the sun is barely peaking over the mountain. We eat breakfast and watched it rise while the fish play with our bait. It’s always so quiet out here, like living in another world and it’s the only time I get to see him, just us.

  That’s when he gave me Grandad's old metal tackle box, the beat-up green one.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He tells me about the time Grandad had to mend a net with fishing line and a broken twig and shows me the little patch on the side of the box where he used a piece of duct tape from the 70s “it’s been there for sixty years, Elara, and it’s still there.” He’s quiet for a long while before he speaks again, “that was the first thing Grandad ever taught me, a little lesson from my Dad when I was your age, and now I’m giving it to you. You see, Elara, in the old days, we fixed it if it broke. We didn’t just throw it out.”

  "It's a bad spot, kiddo. But Grandad always said you can’t quit just because your feet are cold. You still have to do the work. The whole world is built on things people fixed with nothing but duct tape and hope. Small fixes. You don’t have to save it all at once.”

  I helped him mend a tiny tear in the net with string from the tackle box, just like Grandad. It was slow, tedious work. I felt the rough nylon against my fingers and I believed him. I had to believe him, because I knew he wasn't coming home. When I woke up in that boat, it was the only thing that felt real: the smell of the lake air, the sound of the silence echoing across the mirror smooth water, and the knowledge that one tiny, careful stitch could save the whole thing.

  I wish you were here.

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  Elara's not going down without a fight—and they may get hungry while they wait.

  Next Update: Tuesday at 3:00 PM SAST