The last embers of a campfire glow orange against the darkness of a lakeshore. The fire has burned down to coals - no more crackling, no more popping, just the deep, warm tick of cooling ash and the occasional soft collapse of an ember falling into the bed of coals below.
The lake is perfectly still, its surface reflecting starlight in a trembling, liquid mirror. The only water sound is the faintest lap of wavelets against the shore - barely perceptible, more felt than heard.
An occasional fish rises, breaking the surface with a soft plop before the water closes over it again. The air is cool and carries the scent of pine smoke and clean water.
This is the sound of the final hour of a perfect day outdoors - when conversation has ended, the fire has done its work, and all that remains is to lie back and let the stars pull your eyelids closed. The near-silence is populated by just enough sound to feel accompanied.
