She arrived before I did, and she'll likely outlast my visit too. Beneath the hanging branches, the water turns the colour of old glass — half sky, half secret. The ducks keep their distance, tracing slow lines across the surface, as though they know something about this bend in the lake that they're not telling. There's a stillness here that feels borrowed from somewhere older. Perhaps that's just what afternoons by water do to a person — they slow the thoughts down until only the obvious ones remain: light, reflection, breath. Where does a swan go when no one's watching? I suspect we'll never know.