What would you do if the road you were driving on one moment suddenly vanished from existence the next? Roads, like maps, are supposed to anchor us, giving us a sense of direction and certainty. They chart our journeys, tie us to destinations, and reassure us that the world is not only vast but predictable. But sometimes, even the most reliable paths can unravel, leading us into the unknown, as if the earth itself has forgotten where it was meant to go.
John had been feeling stuck. As a writer, he knew that creative blocks were part of the process, but this one had stretched on for weeks. He’d tried everything—meditation, freewriting, even aimlessly wandering the city streets—but nothing seemed to shake loose the fog in his mind. When he heard that the summer camp he’d attended as a child was closing to make way for a new condo development, something clicked. Revisiting the place where he’d spent so many formative summers seemed like just the thing to reignite his creativity. Maybe seeing the old cabins and the lake would bring back memories that could spark a story.
The camp was located deep in the countryside, far from any major highways. John pulled up his GPS and entered the address. The directions seemed simple enough: follow the highway, take a left onto the camp road, and continue for a few miles until he reached the campgrounds.
The drive started uneventfully. The hum of his car and the blur of passing fields gave him time to think. He imagined himself walking the trails he had once explored as a kid, the smell of pine needles and campfires filling the air. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips. When the GPS instructed him to turn onto the camp road, he felt a flicker of recognition. The path, flanked by towering trees, felt like an old friend welcoming him back.
As John drove up the gravel road, memories came rushing back. There was the field where they’d played capture the flag, the mess hall where he’d spent rainy afternoons drawing, and the old dock by the lake where he’d learned to swim. The camp was run-down but still standing, as though waiting for one last summer that would never come. He parked his car and stepped out, his shoes crunching on the gravel. The air smelled faintly of damp wood and moss.
John wandered through the camp, pausing at the cabins and the dining hall. He ran his fingers over the chipped paint of the flagpole, letting the memories flow freely. He took out his notebook, jotting down thoughts and ideas as they came. For the first time in weeks, his mind felt clear. The camp, even in its dilapidated state, was doing its job—it was inspiring him.
Inside one of the cabins, John found a pile of rocks toppled over into a heap. As kids, they had built these little sculptures, stacking stones carefully to mark trails or pass time on quiet afternoons. He gathered up the stones, recreating the formation as he remembered it, each placement bringing back a flicker of the past. When he finished, he left the cabin, closing it gently so as not to disturb his little tribute to his childhood.
After a couple more hours of wandering, his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten all day. He decided to drive into town for lunch and to charge his laptop. He left the camp reluctantly, promising himself he’d return later that afternoon to write a little by the lake. With the excitement of new ideas buzzing in his head, he almost didn’t notice the strange stillness of the road as he drove back down to the highway.
Town was a short drive away, and John found a small diner where he ordered a burger and a coffee. He opened his laptop, typing furiously as he sipped his drink. The ideas poured out of him as he relived the camp’s memories. By the time he finished his meal, he felt rejuvenated, ready to return to the camp and finish what he had started.
But when John turned back onto the camp road, something was wrong. The road, which had been so familiar earlier, now felt different. The gravel looked freshly laid, the trees thicker, almost untouched. He drove for a few minutes before it abruptly ended at the edge of an unfamiliar lake. The water stretched out before him, calm and still, reflecting the late afternoon sky. It was beautiful but utterly wrong. There had never been a lake here before.
John stepped out of the car, his heart pounding. He walked to the water’s edge, staring out at the expanse. The camp should have been just beyond this point, but now it was gone. He checked his GPS, but the signal offered no help—just a blank map with no indication of where he stood.
For a long moment, he stood there, gripping his notebook. The water was unnervingly calm, its surface reflecting the sky like a mirror. He glanced back at the road, relieved to see it still stretching back toward town, unchanged. The camp was gone, swallowed by, or perhaps replaced entirely by, the lake. The realization settled slowly. It wasn’t panic or fear that overtook him, but an eerie sense of melancholy.
John returned to the diner, shaken but resolute. He ordered another coffee and opened his laptop. Searching online for answers, he found no mention of the camp he’d attended as a child. No references to the upcoming condo developments. Not a single piece of history reflected what he knew had once stood in place of the lake. There was, however, plenty of documentation about the lake itself, as though it had always been there, but he knew it couldn’t be true.
Before he headed home, he decided to take one last pass up the road. Once again, he reached the edge of the lake, with no camp in sight.
He got out of his car and walked along the trails near the water, wondering how his entire world had shifted onto it’s head. As he turned around to leave, he noticed the rock sculpture he’d made the previous day, sitting undisturbed in the middle of the path. It was the only trace left of the place he remembered, a silent marker of the camp that had vanished. And as he stood there, notebook in hand, he realized that even if the camp was gone, the story it gave him was still his to tell.
