The Skywell

The town legend said the Skywell only opened once every ten years—when the clouds spun counterclockwise over the lake at the edge of the valley.

Most people laughed at the story. But not the Virelli family.

“It’s real,” Grandpa Luca would always say, leaning on his cane. “The Skywell finds those who need to remember how to breathe.”

Talia had heard the story all her life, but now, at sixteen, it sounded more like metaphor than magic. Still, she didn’t argue when her parents suggested they all go to the lake for the day—Grandpa, too. After months of hospital visits and quiet dinners, they needed a day away. A day together.

They packed sandwiches and blankets and drove north. The lake greeted them with a stillness so complete it felt like walking into a held breath.

They set up near the edge, beneath a circle of silver-barked trees. Grandpa Luca sat facing the water, eyes distant but alert. Talia wandered toward the shore, her younger brother Nico close behind, dragging a stick through the sand.

Then the wind changed.

The clouds above began to swirl—slow, wide circles counter to their usual spin. The air thickened, and the surface of the lake shimmered. Where the sky met the water, a faint blue glow appeared and began to rise, forming a spiral of light that stretched upward like a spinning column.

Grandpa stood without help.

“It’s the Skywell,” he whispered. “Come.”

They gathered near the shore, watching the spiral turn. Talia felt something in her chest shift—an ache she hadn’t noticed until it began to ease. The world around them grew silent, even the birds stilled.

A deep hum filled the space, not loud but complete.

Then a voice—not of sound, but of feeling—pressed gently into their minds:

Breathe. In for four… hold… out for four… hold. Again.

Talia felt it in her bones. Nico closed his eyes and began to count with his fingers. Their mother took her father’s hand. Their father bowed his head.

They all breathed together.

Each breath felt like opening a door. Worries, fear, grief—everything unspoken—rose like mist and was carried upward into the spiraling air. The light pulsed with each exhale. The Skywell responded.

Call after call. Breath after breath.

Talia didn’t know if the Skywell was real or imagined, but it didn’t matter. She felt her chest lighten, her shoulders relax. For the first time since Grandpa’s diagnosis, she saw peace in his face.

Eventually, the spiral began to fade, collapsing gently into the lake like mist into morning.

The wind returned. The birds sang again. But something had changed.

They sat quietly for a while, wrapped in blankets, sharing food without words. Even Nico was still.

As they packed to leave, Grandpa touched Talia’s shoulder.

“You’ll remember that feeling,” he said. “And when things get hard—when your chest tightens, when the world feels too loud—you’ll know what to do.”

Talia nodded.

Breathe.
In for four… hold… out for four… hold.

That night, she wrote it down in her journal:
The Skywell doesn’t appear to everyone. But sometimes, it finds you right when you’ve forgotten how to breathe.