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Fall was on its way. And with it the cold, the death, the decay. How fitting, she thought.

Fog drifted lightly over the lake, bright white in stark contrast to the general gloom of the morning, the glow of the sun not yet peeking over the tops of the trees ringing the small body of water. The girl sat close to the shore on the edge of a small pier jutting out into the inky black liquid, watching the leaves fall from a nearby willow tree. A shroud of darkness blanketed her immediate surroundings, overwhelming yet oddly comforting in its immensity, and she found herself thankful for its presence.

She rose and walked slowly to the end of the pier. The wood was rather cold and chilled her bare feet, but it was nice at the same time. Everything was peaceful, no other living things within earshot. No rustling in the bushes, no chirps and caws in the sky from birds circling overhead. Then the throaty, rumbling croak of a bullfrog echoed across the lake and fell silent once again. She had been wrong in thinking she was alone.

Beneath her, just beyond the platform’s edge, the deep blackness was supremely calm. She closed her eyes, inhaling sharply, and when she opened them again she saw several small waves creeping across the surface of the water. The peace disrupted. She cast a glance skyward, searching for the source, and quickly found it. Collected into drops, dew was falling from a leaf, sprouted from the tip of one of several branches belonging to the willow tree that stretched out over top of the lake. Her breath caught in her throat--welled up at the cusp of the leaf, like a diver preparing to leap from a board, another droplet had formed and was ready to take the plunge. She watched it dangle by a thread for a few seconds, then traced its descent and impact upon the pristine surface with a small, unimpressive noise.

The lake was being drained today. Some construction company in town had purchased the land and planned to build an apartment complex or something on it. The tree, the water, the little pier...They’d all be gone in a matter of hours. “It’s not fair.” she said aloud, to no one besides herself.

It was a favorite spot of hers, perhaps her very favorite. The absolute tranquility was unmatched for miles around. She went there whenever she wanted to be alone with her thoughts, but it had served a great number of purposes in its time. When her parents had been her age, it had been the site of raunchy high school parties, of wild, stupid sex and drunken revelries, and of early-morning philosophical discussions and revelations once the euphoria of the previous night had worn off. This was a magical place, a library of memories and coming-of-age stories. Its sentimental value far outweighed any monetary worth that could be lifted from it. But she highly doubted that the heads of Sterling Bros. Construction were much concerned with that.

Easing herself down into a seated position, she allowed her feet to dangle in the freezing water, chilling her toes at the ends. Overhead the low grumble of thunder echoed among the gathering clouds, grey as grey could be in the sparse light. She shivered slightly before a thought crossed her mind. She highly doubted they were still here, but it was worth checking.

With one hand she reached out to the wooden support pillar on her left, her fingers closing around a length of fishing line fastened to the top, and with a gentle tug several partially full mason jars were brought to the surface. It was the strawberry moonshine she had purchased a few months back, without her parents’ knowledge. She had kept them here because she was fairly certain that no one regularly visited this spot anymore aside from her, and thus the chances that they would ever be discovered were low. Fishing one of them out, she uncapped the container and took a small sniff of its contents. It still smelled alright, and so she took a sip, the liquid burning like fire going down but quickly subsiding into a slight berry taste. She could’ve sworn it was sweeter last time.

She had always been a sucker for Romanticism. This moment, a last drink to toast the tragically inevitable, was no different. Seemed like something straight out of a novel, or some bittersweet movie ending.

She smiled at the thought and drank again.