Water

The lake never spoke. Not in the way oceans did, crashing against cliffs or pulling tides like breath. No, the lake whispered—silent, glassy, a smooth pane of reflection that mirrored the sky so perfectly, it was impossible to tell where heaven ended and water began.

For Mira, the lake was sanctuary. A place where time didn’t dare to intrude. Every summer since she could remember, she returned to her grandmother’s cabin nestled in the hills of Alderwood. And every summer, she sat at the edge of the lake as if waiting for it to reveal a secret it had long guarded.

But this summer was different.

Her grandmother had passed in the spring. The cabin now stood quiet, echoing with memories instead of laughter. Dust clung to the windows. The old rocking chair on the porch creaked even when no wind stirred. Mira wasn’t sure why she came back. Maybe to say goodbye. Maybe because she didn’t know where else to go.

On the first morning, she woke before the sun and walked barefoot down to the dock. Mist clung to the surface of the lake like breath on cold glass. A single ripple broke the silence as a fish leapt, then vanished. It was as if the water exhaled.

She sat cross-legged, arms wrapped around herself, staring into the stillness.

She thought about the storm she carried inside.

Grief is not loud. It does not wail or rage, not always. Sometimes, it settles into your bones, like cold. Sometimes, it hides in the silence, in the way your hand reaches for someone who’s no longer there. It’s in the cup of tea left steeping too long. The single chair at the breakfast table. The book half-read.

Mira had not cried at the funeral. She hadn’t spoken much at all. People said the usual things—She lived a long life, She’s in a better place now, Time heals. But the words were like skipping stones. They touched her, but they never sank in.

Now, the lake—quiet, still, and vast—felt like the only thing that understood.

She remembered when she was eight, and a thunderstorm had crashed through Alderwood. She’d been frightened. Her grandmother had wrapped her in a quilt and whispered, The water looks calm now, doesn’t it? But inside it holds the storm. Just like us.

You don’t have to look loud to feel strong.

A breeze stirred, and the water trembled, just barely. A leaf drifted down, landed, and floated aimlessly.

Mira took a slow breath.

She stepped onto the old canoe tied to the dock—its green paint chipped and worn smooth by time—and untied it. It wobbled, protested, but held. She pushed off, letting the lake decide her path.

With each paddle, the cabin grew smaller, the world quieter. Out in the middle, she let the oars rest. The canoe rocked gently, a cradle of wood and memory. Below her, the lake held its mysteries: fish darting through shadows, old tree roots tangled like forgotten thoughts.

She leaned over the edge and stared into the water. Her reflection wavered—eyes tired, hair loose, face older than it had any right to be.

Then she whispered, “I miss you.”

The words didn’t echo. They sank. Dissolved. She imagined them joining the currents below, circling stones and stories long forgotten.

And finally, tears came. Not a flood. Not a storm. Just quiet rivulets down her cheeks, like rain on still water.

The lake did not speak, but Mira felt it listening.

She stayed out there for what felt like hours. As the sun rose higher, the mist dissolved, and the stillness changed. Not broken—just reshaped. The kind of quiet that follows understanding.

When she paddled back, something in her felt looser, lighter. Not healed, not yet. But softer. Less clenched.

Grief hadn’t left her. It wouldn’t. But the lake had shown her something true.

Still water is not empty. It holds depth, weight, and quiet power.

And sometimes, what looks calm on the surface is carrying the storm below—with grace.