The 6th Journal

 For those who have difficulty reading cursive, I've provided a clear, printed version below.

Today’s trip to Lake Winona felt oddly routine. I arrived early in the morning and watched the fog lift off the water. It was actually kind of beautiful. I set up at my usual spot, eager to get started. I spent the whole afternoon casting my line and watching the water, but there was nothing. No strange shapes, no big pulls, just the same old lake. It’s frustrating because I can’t stop thinking about that night. I even took a break to eat a sandwich while scanning the surface, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. I know I should probably let it go, but I’m drawn back to the lake. Tomorrow I’ll be back, in the same spot, hoping to find out if there’s really something lurking beneath the surface.

    Today, when revisiting one of my grandfather’s journal entries, it hit me how much the lake consumed him. He describes arriving at Lake Winona early, watching the fog lift—a moment of quiet beauty before his obsession took over. He spent hours fishing and waiting, searching for something extraordinary but found nothing. Yet, he couldn’t let it go. That night haunted him, pulling him back, even when the lake seemed ordinary. It’s eerie to think about his persistence. Was it just a fixation—or did he know something we don’t?