Dawn had not yet broken over the mountains. The world clung to deep, velvet shadows, a silken hush draped between the arms of the mountains. The lake, vast and ancient, sat cradled between the silver peaks, quiet in the lingering night.

From the darkness, the fog rose. Not in sharp bursts, nor in a creeping slither; but slow like an exhale, unfurling in delicate ribbons, spinning and tangling and kissing the black glass of the water’s still surface. It drifted towards the shoreline, gentle and reverent, brushing the gnarled roots of old pines, weaving itself through the stones and branches of the forest.

The mountains watched in silence, their jagged faces softened by the mist. Rocks wore crowns of pale vapor and trees became ghostly sketches. The world itself seemed to breathe in rhythm with the mist, a deep, endless tide. The air was sweet with the scent of rain, cool and clean, as if mountain range had been washed in some sacred tide overnight.

Above, the sky lightened, the sun touching the highest peak, gilded in gold, and then spilling gently down the ridges. The fog shimmered, turning the lake molten, golden. Alive.

At the edge of the water, a stag stepped forward. His antlers dripped with pearls of mist, his breath blooming in heavy clouds around him. For a heartbeat, he stood still, cloaked in the silver veil, as if he too were carved from the mist. Then, with the certainty of something belonging to the wild, he moved soundlessly into the woods, leaving only a ripple of fog to mark his passing.

The mountains held its breath. The lake dreamed aloud. And the sun, soft and awestruck, listened.

- - -

(I went to the Appalachian mountains several years ago and saw this happening. It was so beautiful, I never forgot about it. When I saw this prompt, I knew I had to write it down. If you ever get the chance to go to the Appalachian Mountains, I would go visit them.)