The dock groaned softly beneath their weight, its weathered boards warmed by the breath of the sun. Four small bodies sprawled out like a patchwork quilt, knees bent, elbows propped, hearts wide open. The air was thick with the perfume of lake water and wild grass, humming with the lazy song of dragonflies and the whisper of cattails swaying in rhythm with the breeze.
They came here every morning, barefoot and sun kissed, with cheeks freckled by light and pockets filled with strange treasures: bottle caps, feathers, polished stones that shimmered like secrets. Their names were Liam, Nora, Milo, and Sam, but at the lake, they were adventurers, magicians, deep-sea divers, and cloud chasers.
Liam, with a sun-faded baseball cap and scraped knees, claimed he once saw a water sprite dance across the ripples just as dawn kissed the lake. His voice held the weight of belief, as if truth had dripped from the creature’s fingertips into the water below.
Nora, the smallest, had a whisper of a laugh and eyes that drank the world in. She swore the minnows spoke in glimmers, weaving stories in the way they darted like silver needles sewing invisible threads across the shallows. She leaned close, her nose just inches from the surface, her breath stirring little whirlpools of magic.
Milo always came with a sandwich in hand half for himself, half for the turtles he hoped would visit. He’d slide crusts into the water and wait with bated breath, his fingers twitching in anticipation, his ears tuned to the soft plop of turtle shells breaking the mirrored surface.
And Sam? Sam never spoke much. He simply listened. To the creak of the dock. To the wind whispering through the reeds. To the sigh of the earth beneath them. His palms pressed flat against the boards, as if trying to feel the lake’s slow, patient heartbeat.
The sky above stretched like a canvas brushed with watercolor dreams, clouds morphing into galloping horses, soaring ships, and sleeping giants. Below, the lake reflected it all, a second sky, liquid and alive. A dragonfly landed on Liam’s shoulder, its gossamer wings catching the light like stained glass. Time forgot them. The world hushed around them.
The scent of damp wood, the taste of salt on their lips from sweat and summer air, the tickle of grass against their ankles, all of it painted their moments in hues no grown up could ever quite recapture. Because here, on this old dock reaching into a lake that held stories older than memory, the children weren’t just looking at the world. They were inside its wonder.
They saw magic, not because it was rare, but because they knew exactly where to look. And that, perhaps, is the difference between growing up and growing wise.
Stories Past Present Future 