He made the small trek down the tall hill covered in twisted trees, and felt his shoulders unwind at the sight of his lake. The lake front was quiet, as always. A soft breeze whistled across its glassy surface and rattled the shack he called home. The grass inside the poorly fenced garden was trimmed only by the goat, Daisy, and thus grew up to his waist. She stumbled as far as her knobbly rope would allow her to eagerly greet him. He patted her neck, firmly, before brushing her aside. At the very least she was company.

The door creaked open, a few paint chips flaking to the ground. He picked his way through the rubble that littered the hallway; fallen pieces of furniture, broken frames of shattered mirrors, rugs and blankets and old dusty books. A window without glass opened out to the south facing pier. Alvar swung a leg over , stopping at the pain in his chest. He rested his head on the frame of the window, closing his eyes to the setting sun and the pain rippling through his body. His dark curls swung around his gaunt face and his chest heaved. With a sort of apathy, he tumbled outwards onto the pier. While he caught himself a little too late, his tough gloves protected him from the splinters of the old grey boards. The splinters stuck up like small needles in haphazard rows. He figured that one day he would grab a rough stone and smooth the pier. Turning his head, he looked down the pier’s length and thought better of it.

Finding the wind that ran across the lake and bought salt to his nose calming, he didn’t bother to stand, and let his heavy eyes close again. He was always so tired, and sleep seemed less lonely than awakeness.

It was dark, the round moon brighter in the sky that the sun had seemed to be. Stars spread across, and he let his eyes wander. It was strange to him that some people would fear the dark. He could spend hours tracing where the velvets met the satins.

At the back of his mind, a nagging thought interrupted his peace and asked him why he could hear Daisy’s soft cawing. She would normally be asleep at this time. His body tensed.

Black figures crowded the trees around him, staring down with a shameless curiosity. Knowing what he had just done, he avoided looking at the birds. They called at him, and he swallowed hard. Who did it matter to, he thought, brushing away the red dust that clung to his fine, dark arm hair. < The adjectives seem like a bit much, like I’m supposed to find his arm hair attractive. The knife in his pocket rubbed against his thigh, a heavy reminder of the deed. Who the hell did it matter to, anyway?

He made the small trek down the tall hill covered in twisted trees, < Adjectives before every noun give writing a strange cadence that feels awkward. and felt his shoulders unwind < I’m not sure how shoulders can unwind because what would wound shoulders be like? at the sight of his lake. The lake front was quiet, as always. A soft breeze whistled across its glassy surface and rattled the shack he called home. The grass inside the poorly fenced garden < What does it mean for a garden to be poorly fenced? I can’t visualize that. was trimmed only by the goat, Daisy, and thus grew up to his waist. She stumbled as far as her knobbly rope would allow her to eagerly greet him. He patted her neck, firmly, before brushing her aside. At the very least she was company. < At this point I’m getting bored. I don’t have any reason to care about him, his house, or his goat, and the descriptions aren’t anything unusual or unique.

The door creaked open, a few paint chips flaking to the ground. He picked his way through the rubble that littered the hallway; fallen pieces of furniture, broken frames of shattered mirrors, rugs and blankets and old dusty books. A window without glass opened out to the south facing pier. Alvar swung a leg over , < At first I couldn’t understand what he swung his leg over, but that might just be me. stopping at the pain in his chest. He rested his head on the frame of the window, closing his eyes to the setting sun and the pain rippling through his body. His dark curls swung around his gaunt face and his chest heaved. With a sort of apathy, he tumbled outwards onto the pier. While he caught himself a little too late, his tough gloves protected him from the splinters of the old grey boards. < Is he dying or is he just being melodramatic? The way I visualize this, he’s sort of just dramatically throwing himself out the window. The splinters stuck up like small needles in haphazard rows. He figured that one day he would grab a rough stone and smooth the pier. Turning his head, he looked down the pier’s length and thought better of it. < You’ve got this character who is apathetic, has no immediate threats to his well being, and seems to have no objective/goal. It doesn’t give the reader anything to latch onto or find interesting.

Finding the wind that ran across the lake and brought salt to his nose calming, < For some reason I found this difficult to read. I read it as if he found the wind itself.  he didn’t bother to stand, and let his heavy eyes close again. He was always so tired, and sleep seemed less lonely than awakeness. < I feel like you’re trying really hard to get readers to feel sorry for him, but I don’t know why I should. Is he dying? Because otherwise it seems like he’s being a bit melodramatic.

It was dark, the round moon brighter in the sky that the sun had seemed to be. Stars spread across, and he let his eyes wander. It was strange to him that some people would fear the dark. He could spend hours tracing where the velvets met the satins. < This sort of paragraph (the protagonist looking at the stars and moon) is extraordinarily common in novel openings. I would avoid it.

At the back of his mind, a nagging thought interrupted his peace and asked < His thought isn’t asking him – he’s asking himself. I find this wording awkward. him why he could hear Daisy’s soft cawing. She would normally be asleep at this time. His body tensed. < I’m assuming something exciting happens here, but it’s too little too late. Readers won’t get to this point.