“We glide into dawn. The skiff’s bow parts the surface of the forest lake, the air cool and heavy with mist and expectation. As we leave the lakeshore, accents of peony and blackcurrant linger behind. This is the most delicate time of year, the world feels paused — a mirror of pale light and breath.

The only thing heard except for the passerines, is the faint creak of the oars against the customs, and the water droplets leaving the oar tips. Drip drop, drip drop; hitting the surface the ripples widen.

My father rows: I lean forward, chin on the rail, heart alert. Coming to a halt, he prepares my rod, and I watch the baited hook disappear into the secretive depth. The red-and-white float hovers, surrounded by water lilies. The forest lake holds its breath. My orange life jacket, the smell of moist wood, the mist slowly lifting – memory unfolding in real time, as if the morning were waiting for us to arrive.

This was our space. This became our place. A landscape of patience and belonging, where love lived in gestures rather than words.