The Breath Beneath the Lake

Mira hadn’t wanted to come back. The lake had too many memories — her father’s old canoe, the trail where she broke her arm at twelve, the rocks where she and her brother used to dare each other to jump. But after six months of navigating a new autoimmune diagnosis and more medications than she could name, she agreed to the trip. Her younger brother Arun had planned it all: one weekend at the cabin with their cousins, nothing fancy. Just food, trees, and silence.

She packed her pills carefully, counting doses for each morning and evening. Arun double-checked that the car had enough snacks, water, and the emergency kit. “We’re not roughing it,” he’d said. “We’re just remembering.”

The drive was long, winding, quiet. When they arrived, the lake spread out below the bluff like a held breath — dark and still, surrounded by pines.

The first day was slow. Mira took short walks, careful not to overdo it. Her joints ached by afternoon, and her energy dipped like clockwork. She sat by the lake while the others played cards inside.

That’s when she heard it.

A whisper beneath the wind. Not words, but rhythm. Like breathing — slow, deliberate, ancient. It came from the lake.

She stood, walked to the edge. The surface rippled once. She didn’t believe in signs or spirits. But she remembered a story her grandfather used to tell — about the lake that listened.

“They say if you whisper your illness into the water, the lake takes some of it into itself,” he’d said once, his voice low by the fire. “Not all. But enough to let you keep going.”

The others came down later with blankets and cocoa. Arun sat beside her and asked, “You okay?”

She nodded. “Just listening.”

That night, she dreamed of water rising around her — not cold or frightening, but warm, holding her gently, like hands cradling a fragile thing. The water whispered not of cures, but of endurance.

She woke before dawn. Took her meds. Stepped quietly outside and down to the lake.

“I don’t need a miracle,” she said aloud. “Just a little more strength.”

The lake rippled once, as if in answer.

When the family stirred and breakfast sizzled on the camp stove, Mira laughed more easily than she had in months. The pain was still there — her joints still stiff, her muscles still slow — but something had shifted. A quiet knowing. Like she wasn't carrying everything alone anymore.

On their last morning, she filled a small bottle with lake water. Not as a cure. But as a reminder.

That healing, like the lake, didn’t rush. It waited. It breathed.