In the heart of the ancient Alpine valley, where the sun's last rays dipped and died against the colossal crags, there lay a breathtaking mirror of tranquility: Lake reserved for the heavens. Its dark, velvety surface reflected the towering mountains, their snow-capped peaks glistening with the last remnants of twilight.

Amidst the silent solitude of the mountains, a wizened old hermit lived in a small cottage, nestled in the crook of a massive oak tree. He would gaze upon the lake, his eyes casting reflections upon the water's dark visage. One moonlit night, as he peered into its depths, a peculiar sight caught his discerning gaze: three ripple-less ripples, as if the lake had whispered a secret to itself. Smiling, the hermit knew this was no ordinary lake.

With great reverence, he approached the lake, taking care not to disturb its still surface. He knelt down on the damp, mossy banks to wait. As the moon rose high overhead, the lake shook with life, undulating like the belly of a great leviathan. From its depths rose a disembodied voice, "Tell me a jest to amuse the lonesome heart." And with that, the hermit shared a tale of a mischievous fox who tried to steal the sun. The hills echoed with his guffaws, the water smirked in agreement, and the stillness of the night was broken by the hermit's laughter. The lake, now at peace, calmed and whispered, "Thank you for the company, oh witty narrator."

And so, every night, the hermit would share a story with the whispering lake, the hills become his audience, and the mountains in the distance, the silent critics, nodding in approval. The end.