The Lake Cottage – Part 1: Silence

"It's so quiet," said Liisa.

"It's very quiet," agreed Mikko.

They stood on the wooden jetty in the evening light. The lake lay still as polished stone, ringed by pines, a heron standing in the reeds. There was no sound at all but the slow lapping of water against the boards.

They had driven six hours north that day. The cottage belonged to Mikko's uncle: red-painted, tiny, smelling of woodsmoke and old books. A rowing boat bobbed at the jetty. A sauna hut stood by the shore. The nearest house was eleven kilometres away.

"We should have brought the radio," said Liisa.

"We should have brought the dog."

"We don't have a dog."

"We should have brought a dog."

She laughed, and he laughed, and the laughter rolled across the water and returned to them, small and strange. She was forty-one, a nurse, with short blonde hair and a tired face. He was forty-four, an electrician, broad, quiet, with big hands and a sweet, shy smile. Their children, ten and thirteen, were with Mikko's mother for a week.

That night, they cooked fish on a wood stove and ate by candlelight. They didn't turn on the television. They didn't check their phones. Afterwards they sat on the porch in silence, and the silence grew easier.

"Can I ask you something?" said Liisa.

"Yes."

"Do you remember the first time we came here?"

"You fell in the lake."

"You pushed me."

"I helped you."

"You pushed me, Mikko."

He grinned, caught. "It was a good push."

She leaned against him. His arm came round her shoulders, warm and familiar. The stars appeared one by one over the dark pines.

"Green?" she murmured, the old word.

"Green," said Mikko. "Very green. Tomorrow, I'll teach you to row."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Sauna and Stars.