When the Fog Lifted

The docks creaked under my boots as midnight mist clung to my beard. I always bring my grandfather's rusted tackle box – its squeaky hinges seem to lure bass better than any spinnerbait. Tonight the lake breathed differently, its surface rippling with secrets.

'Should've stayed home,' I muttered after three fruitless hours. My coffee thermos emptied as constellations rotated above. Then it happened – the telltale pop of a surface strike near submerged logs. My fluorocarbon line sang through the gloom.

For seventeen pulse-pounding minutes, the beast tested my drag system. Musk mixed with lakewater spray when I finally lipped the 8-pound walleye. Its golden eyes reflected my awestruck face before the release. Dawn broke pink as I packed up, realizing sometimes the fish finds you.