The lake’s lullaby Leni Korhonen The lake’s lullaby Leni Korhonen An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book The lake’s lullaby The lake’s lullaby Leni Korhonen Leni Korhonen An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The lake’s lullaby I t is a truth universally acknowledged that grief, like the frost of a winter’s night, settles upon a family with the cruel impartiality of nature. No rank, disposition, or sense of propriety can fully shield the heart from its touch. Such was the case with the Willoughbys, who, newly bereft of their venera- ble matriarch, found themselves bound not only by their sorrow but also by the peculiarities of fate. The modest lakeside cottage, where they had spent many a summer in simpler times, now served as a sombre refuge in the depth of winter. The carriage ride from their estate to the cottage had been undertaken in silence, save for the rhyth- mic creak of wheels on frozen ground. As they de- scended from the vehicle, the snow, thick and undis- turbed, seemed to swallow the sound of their steps. Leni Korhonen “It is colder than I had anticipated,” remarked Mr. Willoughby, adjusting the scarf at his neck. His tone was sharp, not from any lack of feeling, but as a means of keeping emotion at bay. “Indeed,” replied Mrs. Willoughby, her voice meas- ured. “But it is fitting, perhaps, that the elements re- flect our hearts this evening.” “Fitting, but hardly comforting,” muttered Ed- mund, the eldest son, as he hefted a trunk from the carriage. His manner suggested impatience, though whether it was with the weather or the occasion was unclear. “Brother,” interjected Marianne, her delicate fea- tures framed by a bonnet edged with frost, “you speak as though you would rather not be here at all.” “And if that were the case, would I be so wrong?” he countered, his eyes meeting hers with a flash of defiance. “Our presence here changes nothing of her absence. This ritual, this charade of commemoration, feels an affront to her memory.” “Edmund!” gasped Mrs. Willoughby. “How can you speak so? It was your grandmother’s wish that we come here. Surely, even you cannot deny her that small courtesy.” The lake’s lullaby “It is not courtesy I deny, Mother,” he replied, his tone softening slightly. “But I do question the pur- pose.” Marianne turned her gaze to the lake, its surface smooth and still under the fading light. “Perhaps,” she said quietly, “the purpose is not ours to question, but to discover. Grandmother often spoke of the lake as holding secrets ...secrets that revealed themselves only to those who waited.” “Secrets,” scoffed Edmund, though his voice lacked true derision. “I suppose next you will tell us that she meant for us to find them.” “Perhaps she did,” Marianne said, her voice steady. Mr. Willoughby, who had thus far remained silent, now spoke with the authority of one accustomed to command. “Enough of this. We are here, and we shall remain here until we have done what duty requires. Let us proceed inside.” The cottage was as they remembered it: small, with a low-beamed ceiling and a hearth that seemed too grand for the modesty of the room. The fire had been lit earlier by the housekeeper, and its glow danced across the worn furnishings. Yet, the warmth it pro- Leni Korhonen vided was inadequate against the chill that pervaded their spirits. As they settled into their respective tasks, Mrs. Willoughby arranging supper, Marianne unpacking linens, Edmund pacing the room in restless silence, conversation turned, as it inevitably must, to the let- ter left by the late Granny Willoughby. “Have you brought it, Father?” Marianne asked, her voice hesitant but resolute. “I have,” he replied, producing a sealed envelope from his coat. The paper was thick, the seal unbro- ken. “Will you read it now?” Mrs. Willoughby asked, though her expression suggested she already knew his answer. “Not yet,” he said, placing the letter on the mantel- piece. “There will be time enough for that after sup- per.” “But why delay?” pressed Edmund, his brow fur- rowing. “If Grandmother took the trouble to leave us a message, surely it demands our immediate at- tention.” The lake’s lullaby “Patience, my boy,” Mr. Willoughby said, though his own hand lingered near the letter, as if tempted to break the seal. “Let us first partake of what small comfort this evening offers.” Comfort, however, was elusive. The supper, sim- ple fare of bread, cheese, and cold meat was eaten in near silence, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts. Marianne attempted conversation, remarking on the beauty of the snow-covered landscape, but her efforts were met with little enthusiasm. Finally, as the plates were cleared and the fire burned low, Mr. Willoughby rose and took the letter in hand. All eyes were upon him as he broke the seal and unfolded the paper. “‘To my dearest family,’” he began, his voice steady despite the trembling of his hands. “‘If you are read- ing this, I have gone to rest among the stars. Do not grieve me too long, for life is too precious to be spent in sorrow. Instead, I ask you to seek what I have hid- den, something that holds the key to your future. You will find it where winter and memory meet.’” A hush fell over the room. The riddle, cryptic and unexpected, left them all searching for meaning. Leni Korhonen “What could she have meant?” Mrs. Willoughby asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Where winter and memory meet,” repeated Mari- anne, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Surely she refers to the lake. It was her favourite place, was it not?” “Or perhaps,” said Edmund, his scepticism tem- pered by intrigue, “she refers to something else en- tirely. Winter and memory—these are abstractions, not locations.” Mr. Willoughby sighed heavily, folding the letter with care. “Whatever her meaning, it is clear she in- tended for us to uncover it together. We shall begin our search in the morning.” “Why wait?” Marianne said, rising from her seat. “The lake is just outside. Let us go now, while the rid- dle is fresh in our minds.” “Do not be absurd,” her father said, though not un- kindly. “The hour is late, and the cold is unforgiving. We will make better progress in the light of day.” But Marianne, ever the dreamer, could not be dis- suaded. Wrapping herself in a shawl, she stepped to- ward the door. “I shall go alone if I must,” she said, her voice firm. The lake’s lullaby “Marianne!” her mother cried. “Let her go,” Edmund said, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Perhaps she will return with some grand discovery or at the very least, frostbitten toes.” Marianne opened the door, the night air rushing in with a force that seemed almost sentient. For a mo- ment, she hesitated, then stepped out into the snow, her lantern casting a faint circle of light. The family watched her go, the door closing behind her with a soft thud. In the silence that followed, each was left to ponder Granny Willoughby’s final words and the mysterious journey they had only just begun. Leni Korhonen I. The Willoughbys arrived at the cottage just as the last glimmer of sunlight melted into the horizon, leaving the world bathed in the cold embrace of twi- light. Snow crunched beneath their boots as Mr. Wil- loughby, tall and stoic with an air of practiced com- posure, held the door open for his family to enter. “Do hurry, Marianne,” he said as his daughter lin- gered on the threshold. “The cold will not wait for you to ponder it.” “I am not pondering the cold, Father,” Marianne replied, her voice laced with the quiet defiance of someone who often indulged in melancholy. “I am merely, looking.” She turned her gaze toward the lake, its surface still and unbroken, reflecting the faint light of a crescent moon. The lake’s lullaby “Looking at what?” Edmund interjected as he stomped the snow from his boots. “There is nothing there to see. It is a lake in winter. Hardly a marvel.” “Edmund,” Mrs. Willoughby chastised gently, “your sister’s sentiments deserve more respect than that. We are not here to quarrel.” “Nor to linger,” Mr. Willoughby added with a glance toward Marianne. “Come inside, child.” Reluctantly, Marianne stepped into the cottage, closing the door behind her. The air inside was mar- ginally warmer, thanks to the fire Mrs. Hathaway, the housekeeper, had lit earlier in the day. Its glow danced over the low-beamed ceiling and the collec- tion of modest, timeworn furnishings. But for all its familiarity, the cottage felt different now, emptier, colder in spirit. Granny Willoughby’s absence was palpable, her presence reduced to memories that clung like shadows in the corners of the room. As Mrs. Willoughby busied herself arranging sup- per, Mr. Willoughby set about unpacking the trunks. Edmund slumped into the chair nearest the hearth, his brooding expression lit by the flickering flames. Marianne, meanwhile, stood by the window, her del- icate hands clutching her shawl. Leni Korhonen “I do not understand why we are here,” Edmund muttered after several moments of silence. “To honour your grandmother’s wishes,” Mr. Wil- loughby said without looking up. “She wished for us to spend a winter’s night here, in this desolate place?” Edmund’s tone carried more disbelief than sarcasm. “She wished for us to read her letter here,” Mrs. Willoughby corrected, setting a plate of cold meat and bread on the table. “And you know how she cher- ished this cottage.” “A fine sentiment for summer,” Edmund said, his voice sharp, “but less so in the dead of winter.” “Edmund,” Marianne said quietly, turning from the window. “Must you always speak so unkindly? Do you think she chose the timing of her departure? She is gone, and we are here. Surely, we can afford her this last gesture.” “And what gesture is that?” he retorted. “Freez- ing ourselves in a cottage she abandoned years ago? Reading some letter filled with riddles? Forgive me, Marianne, but I see no wisdom in any of it.” The lake’s lullaby “That is because you refuse to see,” Marianne re- plied, her voice trembling with a mix of frustration and sadness. “Enough,” Mr. Willoughby said, his tone brooking no further argument. “This is neither the time nor the place for discord. Edmund, you will cease your complaints. Marianne, sit down and eat.” Both children obeyed, though the tension in the room remained palpable. They ate in silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound to break the still- ness. When the meal was finished and the plates cleared, Mr. Willoughby stood and retrieved the envelope from the mantelpiece. It was thick, the seal a deep red wax stamped with Granny Willoughby’s initials. For a moment, he simply held it, as though the weight of its contents might be discerned through touch alone. “Will you read it now, Father?” Marianne asked, her voice soft but eager. “Yes,” he said, breaking the seal with a careful hand. The family gathered around him, their expressions ranging from curiosity to apprehension. Mr. Willoughby unfolded the letter and began to Leni Korhonen read aloud. “‘My dearest family,’” he said, his voice steady but solemn, “‘if you are reading this, then I am no longer with you. Do not grieve me overly much, for I have lived a life full of joys and sorrows, and I am at peace.’” Mrs. Willoughby dabbed at her eyes with a hand- kerchief as he continued. “‘I have left for you a task, one which I hope will bring you closer together as a family. There is something I have hidden—some- thing precious, and meant for you all. You will find it where winter and memory meet.’” A hush fell over the room as the family absorbed the cryptic words. “‘Where winter and memory meet,’” Marianne re- peated softly. “She must mean the lake.” “Or the cottage,” Mrs. Willoughby suggested. “It was her favourite place in all the world.” “Or nothing at all,” Edmund said, his scepticism resurfacing. “It is a riddle, nothing more. A senti- mental notion she crafted in her final days.” “Edmund!” his mother exclaimed. “How can you say such a thing?” The lake’s lullaby “Because it is true,” he said, his voice rising. “What are we to do? Search every inch of this place in the dead of winter on the strength of a metaphor?” “Perhaps that is exactly what she meant for us to do,” Marianne said, her eyes bright with determina- tion. “Enough,” Mr. Willoughby said firmly. “We will begin our search in the morning. For now, let us rest. Whatever it is she intended for us to find will wait.” But Marianne could not be dissuaded. As the rest of the family prepared for bed, she returned to the window, her gaze fixed on the lake. She felt certain that the answer lay there, shimmering beneath the ice and snow. And as the first stars appeared in the night sky, she resolved that, come morning, she would un- cover the secret her grandmother had left behind. Leni Korhonen II. The morning came with a pale sun that bare- ly pierced the heavy clouds. Within the confines of the cottage, the Willoughbys gathered around the hearth. Despite the warmth of the fire, a chill hung in the air, not of the season but of the weighty words left behind by Granny Willoughby. Marianne was the first to broach the subject again. “Father,” she said softly, her hands clasped in her lap. “What of the letter? Should we not begin our search?” Edmund, who sat in the chair nearest the window, scoffed lightly. “Search for what? A metaphor? ‘Where winter and memory meet’what does that even mean? I daresay it’s just a poetic flourish.” The lake’s lullaby “It is not just a flourish,” Marianne replied sharply, her pale cheeks flushing. “Granny was never one to waste her words. If she wrote it, she meant it.” “Children,” Mrs. Willoughby interjected gently, “let us not quarrel. The letter is a puzzle, yes, but one that deserves our consideration.” Mr. Willoughby, who had been quietly reading by the fire, set down his book and looked at his family. “Your mother is correct. We must honour her wishes, however cryptic they may seem. I propose we exam- ine the grounds today and see if anything presents itself.” “Examine the grounds?” Edmund repeated incred- ulously. “In this weather? Surely, Father, you do not mean for us to wander aimlessly in the snow.” “I mean precisely that,” Mr. Willoughby replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “If you wish to remain indoors, Edmund, I will not force you. But I, for one, will not dismiss your grandmother’s wish- es so easily.” Edmund sank back into his chair, muttering some- thing about the absurdity of the endeavour. Mari- anne, however, stood at once, her expression resolute. Leni Korhonen “I shall go with you, Father,” she said. “Granny loved the lake, it must have something to do with it. I am sure of it.” “Then we shall start there,” Mr. Willoughby agreed. “Edmund?” Edmund sighed heavily. “If I must.” Mrs. Willoughby, ever the voice of calm, smiled at them all. “I shall remain here and prepare something warm for your return. Do not stray too far.” The snow crunched underfoot as the three of them made their way to the frozen lake. Marianne walked slightly ahead, her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “You are very quiet, Marianne,” her father ob- served. “What are you thinking?” “I am thinking of Granny,” she replied. “Of all the stories she used to tell us about this place. Do you remember, Father, how she spoke of skating on this very lake when she was a girl? She said the winters then were harsher, and yet she found such joy in them.” “I remember,” Mr. Willoughby said with a faint