Legend LXXII – The Lady of Still Waters

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In the gently woven heart of the Silver Forest, where the sun penetrates the blossoming undergrowth only in refracted rays, lies a lake so still that it is said even time itself dares not touch it. No waves ripple its surface; every reflection seems like a thought that has lingered too long in the light. Travelers who glimpse it often feel an inexplicable stirring in their breasts—a longing that is not their own. For in the midst of these waters glides a boat, as narrow as a whispering breath, and upon it stands the Lady of Still Waters. Her gown, woven from the dust of bygone twilights, falls like liquid gold over the gunwale and touches the water without ever severing it. The flowers of the shore bow to her as if welcoming a queen whose crown is made not of precious stones, but of dreams told. Her face is serene, almost otherworldly, and her eyes seem not to gaze at the world, but through it—as if searching for something beyond all paths. No one knows how long she has been gliding across the lake. Some claim she is a lost princess of a kingdom long since sunk; others say she is a water nymph who once loved a mortal and was cursed never to set foot on land again. But the oldest legends tell a different story—one not of love, but of memory. Once, the lady was a seer, a keeper of the mirror paths. Her gift was not to see the future, but those forgotten moments that hid like scales among the seconds of the world. She could discern a person's grief that they themselves could not name; she could unravel the thread of a destiny that seemed long since knotted. But one day, as she gazed into the lake's waters, she recognized something in them that even she couldn't interpret—her own reflection, which didn't move like hers, but was alive. Breathing. Whispering. The reflection spoke: "If you want to know who you are, you must first see what you have lost." And so her transformation began. The water rose like hands drawing her toward it. Her body grew light, her heart heavy, and when she opened her eyes again, she stood on a boat she had never seen before. Her old life lay behind a glass wall, so distant that it vanished like a dream in the morning. Since then, she has glided tirelessly across the lake, guided by a force no one can name. But the lady is not alone. It is said that the lake speaks to her. Its stillness is not emptiness, but a listening. Some nights, when the moon hangs like a silver splinter over the forest, voices rise from the depths—not loud, but clear. The voices of those who have ever lost something: a promise, a home, a loved one, or even themselves. The Lady listens to them, and each word settles like a blossom on the surface. When they touch the boat, they sink and become part of the water that never forgets. On that evening, which the guardians of the Silver Forest still speak of today, the Lady stood more still than usual in the dim light.