They set out just after dawn, when the lake still held its breath and the mist lay low and patient on the water. The oars dipped without hurry, and the little boat slid away from the dock with the soft complaint of wood against rope. Pines ringed the shore, their reflections long and dark, and somewhere a bird cleared its throat as if considering a song and deciding against it.

Edmund baited his hook with care, fingers practiced, expression content. He wore a hat that had known many summers and boots that had known better ones.

Thomas, sitting opposite, adjusted his tackle box and glanced at the water with the hopeful seriousness of a man who had already imagined the weight of a fine catch. “They’ll be biting today,” he said. “You can feel it in the air.”

Edmund nodded, cast his line, and settled back. “Mm,” he said. “Good day for it.”

They fished in companionable quiet for a time. The sun rose enough to paint the mist gold, and the lake gave up small sounds—tiny splashes, the distant plop of something jumping, the soft scrape of the boat shifting its mind about where it wanted to be.

Thomas felt the first tug.

“Well now,” he murmured, setting his hook with confidence. The rod bent, proper and true, and the line sang just enough to stir the blood. He reeled with care, smiling, and soon a trout broke the surface in a shimmer of silver and green.

“A beauty,” Thomas said, lifting it free. “Look at that.”

Edmund leaned over, peered at the fish, and frowned slightly. “Hm.”

Thomas blinked. “Hm?”

Edmund shrugged. “Not what I’m after.”

Before Thomas could ask what that meant, Edmund flicked his wrist and sent his own line back out, precise and unhurried.

Thomas laughed. “I don’t recall us setting different goals. You’re fishing, same as me.”

Edmund said nothing.

Thomas admired his trout a moment longer, then set it gently into the basket. The lid closed with a satisfied sound. He cast again, feeling quite pleased with the morning.

Minutes passed. Then his rod dipped again—this time harder.

“Well I’ll be—” Thomas grunted as he braced himself. The fish fought, strong and stubborn, and the water churned where it ran. Thomas worked it in slowly, breathing through his teeth, until a broad-backed fish surfaced, thick and gleaming.

Edmund leaned over again. His frown deepened.

Thomas stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

Edmund tilted his head. “Too lively.”

“Too lively,” Thomas repeated. “That is a magnificent fish.”

Edmund gave a small apologetic smile. “Not for me.”

Thomas opened his mouth, closed it, then carefully unhooked the fish and watched it vanish back into the lake. “You’ve developed a strange philosophy since last summer.”

They fished on.

Thomas caught another. Then another. Each time, Edmund observed, considered, and dismissed with a quiet shake of the head. One fish was too long. Another too heavy. A third had the wrong look about it, though Edmund did not elaborate on what that look was.

Thomas’s confusion grew into something that rustled at the back of his thoughts like dry leaves. “Are you unwell?” he asked finally. “Did I miss a conversation?”

Edmund reeled in, checked his line, and cast again. “No, no. Perfectly fine.”

“Because you keep throwing back fish that would make any fisherman proud.”

“Habit,” Edmund said.

Thomas squinted at him. “You have never had that habit.”

The sun climbed higher. The mist thinned and drifted away, leaving the lake bright and honest. The basket at Thomas’s feet grew respectably heavy, while Edmund’s side of the boat remained stubbornly empty.

Then Edmund’s line went tight.

He did not smile. He did not gasp. He simply leaned forward, attentive, as though greeting an expected guest.

Thomas watched, baffled, as Edmund reeled with measured patience. The rod bent, but not as a fish would bend it. There was weight, certainly, but no fight, no sudden darting runs. Whatever was on the line came in slow and obliging, rising from the depths with all the enthusiasm of something that had been waiting.

The surface broke.

Thomas stared.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Water streamed from a black rubber boot, scarred and scuffed, its laces gone and its sole worn thin in places that spoke of long use and longer miles.

Edmund lifted it into the boat with both hands and set it down gently, as one might set down something important.

Thomas looked from the boot to Edmund. “That,” he said carefully, “is footwear.”

Edmund nodded, satisfied. “Yes.”

“You have been fishing for fish.”

“No,” Edmund said. He turned the boot, inspected it, and smiled. “I have been fishing for this.”

Thomas rubbed his face. “You threw back a lake full of perfectly good fish.”

Edmund slipped off his left boot. “It had a hole,” he said, and pulled the rubber boot onto his foot. It fit as if it had always intended to be there.

He stamped once on the bottom of the boat. Dry.

Thomas stared at Edmund’s feet, then at the lake, then back again. “You could have told me.”

Edmund shrugged, settling back with contentment. “Where’s the fun in that?”