Dot Lake lives on the Alaskan Highway, a village here before the road. The cemetery shows this was home for generations. Thus so in countless towns, countless people, for millenia. An old home beckons us. We come, and stay, and we know why. We have been here before. We linger, and feel something right, unadulterated, clean. We come encumbered and leave whole. The spirit of a place gives soul to buildings and geography. Dot Lake renews, for reasons. Reasons the heart knows, and holds close: a secret ruined if told. In silence it heals, and we are thankful.
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