Reece March

‚Silver Lake Motel‘ The air around Silver Lake hums with the kind of silence that only comes after too many goodbyes. The water never stills, the sign never stops flickering — and yet, nothing ever really changes. Every summer looks the same through the thin motel curtains: the same rain-warped wood, the same neon glow, the same man sitting behind the counter with a book he never reads. No one remembers how long he’s been here. Some say he bought the place for peace. Others whisper it was penance. He just calls it staying close. Each night, he walks the same loop around the lake, stopping by the dock where the boards still bear two faint initials carved into the grain. When you arrive, the summer heat is heavy enough to taste. You sign your name, and he looks up — just once, just long enough for something in his chest to falter. There’s a flicker, a shadow of recognition he can’t quite name. Later, when thunder rolls across the lake and the motel lights shiver, he’ll find himself at your door — no reason, no excuse. Only a heartbeat that remembers something his mind has long forgotten. (41, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)