Where the Water Sleeps

The lake had no name. Locals called it the Hollow, though no one could say why. It sat nestled between hills like a mirror framed in green, glassy and soft-edged, its surface broken only by dragonflies and the occasional ripple that spread without wind.

Elara arrived in the cusp of spring, drawn by a yearning she couldn’t name. She had lived in cities too long—smothered by steel, by noise, by the invisible crush of other people’s lives pressing against hers like damp fog. She found the cottage online. A single photo: ivy-wrapped stone, a deck dipping into the lake like an arm reaching out.

The silence was immediate. Not empty, but full. Birdsong floated lightly through the trees. Water lapped gently at the wooden pilings. She could smell pine and wet earth and something just slightly sweet beneath it all, like the breath of a lullaby.

She unpacked slowly, as though waking from something. The rooms were small and warm. The bed was dressed in linen the color of river stones. There was no television. No internet. She didn’t miss them.

On the first night, she left the windows open. The lake murmured softly in her dreams, like someone speaking underwater. She woke with the taste of water in her mouth and the sound of someone humming just beneath her window. But when she looked, only the trees swayed—slowly, rhythmically—as if dreaming.

Each morning, she walked the edge of the lake barefoot, the mud cool between her toes. Tiny fish darted near the shallows, silver sparks among the reeds. Once, she found a smooth stone that pulsed faintly in her hand, as though it had a heartbeat. She set it on her windowsill.

She read. She dozed in the sun. She swam.

The water cradled her. It felt warmer than it should, as if the lake knew her skin. When she floated, arms spread like wings, she often lost track of time. Sometimes she woke from her drifting with no memory of diving in.

At night, she lit a candle and sat on the deck, listening.

There were sounds in the water.

Not threatening. Not quite. Just… present.

Breathing, maybe. Or weeping. Or laughter softened by distance.

On the fifth evening, she saw the girl.

Just a shape at first—a figure standing waist-deep in the lake, long hair trailing like roots in the current. Her back was turned. Her stillness was complete. Elara didn’t call out.

When she blinked, the girl was gone.

The next morning, the stone on her windowsill was wet. And humming.

She began to feel changes.

Little things.

She no longer felt hungry. Or tired. Her hair grew faster. Her skin looked almost translucent in the mirror, veins like riverpaths. Her eyes were paler than she remembered.

She told herself it was the fresh air. The good sleep. The water.

And yet.

There were moments.

Once, she tried to walk away from the lake—to hike the hills behind the cottage—but after only twenty minutes, her legs trembled and her mouth dried. The wind seemed to whisper her name backward. She turned back, breathless with relief when the water came into view again, still and waiting.

She laughed it off. She hadn’t come here to leave.

One night, she saw the girl again.

Closer.

This time, the girl faced her. Her eyes were wide and empty as the moon, her mouth slightly parted in something like wonder. Her dress rippled, though there was no wind. She raised one arm slowly, like reaching through water, and pointed at Elara.

Elara did not move. She could not move.

The girl opened her mouth. A stream of lake water poured out—silent, unending.

Then she was gone.

The stone on the windowsill cracked.

Elara began waking soaked, her sheets wet to the skin. The scent of algae clung to her skin even after she dried. She started sleeping on the deck, wrapped in blankets, lulled by the rhythm of the waves. Sometimes she awoke floating in the lake itself, unharmed.

The lake never let her sink.

But she heard them now.

Not dreams. Not illusions.

Voices beneath the water.

“She’s almost ready.”
“The hollow has missed her.”
“Another dream for the deep.”

On the twelfth night, she did not light the candle. She stood at the edge of the dock, toes over water, and waited.

The lake was still.

Then, a ripple.

The girl surfaced—only her eyes and crown visible, hair spreading like ink in water. She smiled.

Elara smiled back.

She walked into the water.

Not with fear.

With longing.

The water wrapped her in warmth, pulled her deeper than the lake should have gone. The world dimmed, but did not vanish. Light bent strangely. She opened her mouth and the water did not fill her lungs.

Instead, she sang.

They found the cottage empty two weeks later.

No signs of struggle. The bed was made. Books closed. Windows open. On the sill, a cracked stone that smelled faintly of lilies.

No body was recovered.

Only a whisper of silk in the reeds.

The lake is calm.

The water is warm.

a serene embrace of water.