Still Water

Photo by Jonathan Austen

The lake was calm.

A glassy stillness stretched across Woodland Lake Park, disturbed only by the soft honking of geese and the sudden scurry of goslings darting out of the path. Ben Weston walked slowly along the paved loop, boots crunching over gravel and pine needles, the air sharp with the scent of sun-warmed water and distant woodsmoke.

The dock was empty this time of day. A few picnic tables sat idle beneath the pines. Far off, on the far side of the trail, an elderly couple walked hand in hand—slow, careful steps. A small white dog hovered just ahead of them, tail raised like it was leading the way.

Ben didn’t wave. Just watched them pass.

He crossed over to the narrow trail that curved along the backside of the lake, the quieter stretch, where the trees bent lower and the bench sat half-hidden beneath an old willow. The goslings rustled again as he approached, ducking beneath a bush, their tiny webbed feet flapping in panic before settling in the shadows.

He reached the bench and sat.

The wood creaked beneath him. It was worn smooth from age, from weather, from people like him. The lake shimmered just beyond the trees, its surface unbroken, holding the sky like a mirror.

A few minutes passed in silence.

Then, a woman sat beside him.

No sound of footsteps. No rustle of clothes. Just the sudden sense of presence—quiet, familiar.

Ben smiled gently. “Hey, Maggie.”

“I’ve missed you,” she said.

“I’ve missed you too,”

“I knew you’d come.”

“I always do.”

They sat there together, eyes on the water, complete stillness. No rush to fill the air. No need to explain.

Ben glanced sideways at her. She looked the same. The soft sweep of dark hair. The slope of her shoulders. She seemed older somehow, and yet untouched. There were shadows beneath her eyes that hadn’t been there when they were kids. But her presence brought something easy with it—like air returning to a room.

“I was thinking about skipping rocks,” he said. “Like we used to when we were kids.”

She smiled, not looking at him. “I remember. You were awful at it.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he said. “Since last time.”

That made her turn just slightly. “You should be a pro by now.”

He chuckled. “I want to get it right.”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I just like sitting with you.”

He looked back toward the water. A duck glided silently across the surface, leaving a soft wake behind it. The sun flickered through the trees, scattering light across the shallows.

They sat like that for a while. Saying little. Sharing something deeper than talk.

Then a voice broke the quiet.

“Hi.”

Ben turned.

A girl stood a few feet away, maybe nine or ten. Hair in a loose braid. A stick in one hand and a flat stone in the other. She tilted her head at him.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked, innocent and curious.

Ben blinked.

He turned to the seat beside him.

It was empty.

No indentation in the wood. No shadow. Just still air and sun-faded grain.

He stared at it for a long moment. Something behind his ribs gave a small, familiar ache.

“No one,” he said quietly. “Someone I used to know.”

The girl didn’t seem alarmed. Then she leaned in a little, like she was telling him something private.“I have an imaginary friend too,” she whispered. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Ben let out a quiet breath. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate that.”

She held out the stone. “You wanna skip?”

He followed her down to the shoreline where the pebbles gave way to smooth, packed dirt. He took the rock and let it spin between his fingers.

“You gotta lean back first,” the girl said. “And kinda let it fly. Like you mean it.”

Ben smiled. The words sounded just like Maggie. “Okay,” he said, and stepped forward. He wound up, focused, and let the stone go.

It skipped once.

Twice.

Then dropped.

“Not bad,” she said.

He tried again with another. She skipped three in a row with ease.

“My brother says it’s in the wrist,” she added, “but I think it’s more about what you’re feeling. You know?”

Ben nodded. “Yeah. That sounds about right.” He paused, then added, “My sister used to say something like that too.”

They tossed a few more. Laughed once when one bounced awkwardly into a patch of reeds. For a few minutes, the world got quiet again—but a different kind of quiet. Lighter.

Then a voice called out from the path.

“Avery! Time to go!”

The girl turned to leave, then paused and looked back at him.

“Bye,” she said. “And tell your friend I said hi.”

And just like that, she ran off, braid swinging behind her.

He stood alone by the edge of the lake. The wind had picked up slightly, ruffling the water. A ripple moved across the surface, scattering the reflection.

He turned and walked back to the bench.

Then he saw it.

A reminder.

A small brass plaque affixed to the backrest. Faded, greened around the screws.

IN MEMORY OF MAGGIE WESTON

1988–2011

His hand rested gently on the wood.

He didn’t cry. Not this year.

Just sat still with it.

Then, after a long breath, he whispered, “That one was for you.”

He turned to leave. At the edge of the path, he looked back at the bench one last time.

“I’ll see you next year,” he said.

And kept walking, the trees closing in behind him.