The cabin was slightly chilly at four in the morning. The fire went out long before I awoke. The windows had fogged and then seemed to be grazed as something or someone wandered by. Walking closer, I realized it was not grazed, but streaked on purpose. With my forehead against the pane, I looked into the distance where a placid lake lay - calm and unmoving with its mists so bizarre and unusual for that season. The mists parted to allow a white figure's passage. It vaguely resembled a woman, not joyous or mean, but mournful and miserable. She kept drifting toward me, without eye contact or gestures to approach or retreat. Stopping again, she rose her eyes to mine. During what seemed like an endless period, I felt her pain and sorrow. Everything is black. 1