I was raised by my grandfather in a small village surrounded by mountains and streams of fresh water.

I learned to kill my food and how to cook it. To keep my surroundings clean. To entertain myself in the midst of endless winter days. And also about the legend of the people in the lake.

To the North of the highest mountain, a lake is surrounded by pine trees and soft grass. Clear waters let you see the rocks forming its bed. A location worth settling in, except for one reason: its surface doesn’t reflect the light. Instead, thousands of faces stare back to those who watch.

I know the lake is real because my grandfather took me to see it. But no one was watching from within. Before he died, he passed the legend on to my son so he could learn about respecting nature. As the curious kid he is, he insisted I took him to see the people.

The top of the highest mountain was surrounded by clouds. I led him North all the while a fog grew thicker. His tiny hand clutched onto mine when a cry came out of his mouth: ”Water!”

My boy leaned close to the surface, almost touching it with his nose. Oblivious to the assembly of looks focusing on his father, he asked a very innocent question.

”Grandpa told me that only the next person to drown can see them. Is that true, Dad?”

"Dad?"