When the Fog Lifted

3:47 AM. The dashboard clock's faint glow illuminated my thermos of bitter diner coffee. Through the truck's fogged windows, Lake Winnipesaukee's shoreline lay hidden under cotton-thick mist. I touched the frayed edge of my grandfather's lucky fishing hat - its duck feather still miraculously clinging after twenty seasons.

『Should've brought the depth finder,』 I muttered, poling the skiff through shallows where lily pads kissed the gunwales. The cold aluminum seat bit through my waders as first casts plopped into the pearly gloom. By sunrise, only three yellow perch mocked my cooler.

『One more drift.』 The words tasted like surrender. Then it happened - that electric braided line twitch every angler knows in their marrow. The rod arched violently, screech of drag harmonizing with my pounding pulse. For six breathless minutes, the world narrowed to singing line and burning forearms.

When the smallmouth finally surfaced, dawn broke through mist in molten ribbons. Its bronze flanks glowed like treasure from the deep. As I slipped the hook free, a single droplet from its tail fin landed on my wrist - colder than lake water, warmer than regret.