The next morning, the apartment was quiet again—but not empty. The healing woman stirred first, rising to the smell of still air and birdsong leaking in through the window screens. Her son was still asleep in his room, sprawled across his bed, a tangle of hoodie and pillow. She smiled to herself and tiptoed through her morning: tea in hand, camera bag repacked, two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and tucked beside a bottle of chilled water.

Yesterday had filled something in her that had long been hollow. Today, she wanted more of that stillness. But not alone. Not yet.

By the time she nudged his door open, he was already sitting up.

“Let me guess,” he said, stretching. “The woods again?”

“The lake today,” she replied, already smiling.

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They drove with the same windows-down peace, though today the road felt quieter. Sunday had hushed the town. The world moved slower. It was still early enough for dew to cling to the grass, but the sun promised warmth.

Their path began near the lower trail, weaving through shaded groves and brush thick with dragonflies. They took their time. There was no hurry. The healing woman had learned that healing, when shared, needed space to breathe. Her son stayed close, occasionally pointing out a flicker of movement, a bird’s call, a shape in the leaves that might be something more.

The trees eventually gave way to light and air, and the lake unfolded before them—wide, open, and shimmering beneath a sky brushed with soft clouds. The surface was calm, broken only by the slow ripples of movement beneath and across it.

They stepped down to the grassy edge and stood together for a while, saying nothing. The air smelled of warm water, algae, and the sweet rot of fallen leaves below the surface. Dragonflies skimmed across the lake like sparks. Blue ones. Green. And then—there—red.

She turned to her son and raised an eyebrow. He was already grinning. “I saw it too.”

Near the reeds, ducks moved in small processions—most of them mallards, the males shining emerald-green in the morning light, the females gliding beside them, quiet but watchful. A few ducklings followed in awkward rows, fuzzy and determined. The healing woman crouched low, camera raised, framing the reflection of the birds with practiced patience.

Her son walked the bank slowly, his eyes scanning the water. “Turtle,” he called softly, and then again, “another.” And soon, they were everywhere.

Turtles lined the edge of a log half-sunken into the lake—eight of them, maybe more. Some basked with limbs outstretched, others tucked in, still as stone. As they approached slowly, another four heads surfaced in the water, blinking at them before vanishing beneath the surface with soft plops. She began photographing them, captivated by their calm.

“I think this is the turtle capital of the entire forest,” he whispered.

Near the inlet, snakes lay coiled in patches of sun-warmed rock—garter snakes, small and harmless, flicking their tongues lazily. Her son leaned in to observe them at a respectful distance, fascinated by the way they barely moved. One lifted its head and watched them for a moment before curling back into itself.

They moved along the bank until they found a flat area beneath a patch of willows, their thin leaves casting dappled light on the ground below. Here, they sat and ate quietly—their sandwiches shared without conversation, the air filled instead with birdsong and the slow hum of insects in the reeds.

The healing woman leaned against the willow trunk, legs stretched forward, camera resting in her lap. Her son lay beside her, arms folded under his head again.

“I think the ducks have this figured out,” he murmured. “They just float. No expectations. No obligations.”

She smiled. “We could learn something from them.”

They lingered there until the sun had climbed higher. The dragonflies danced thicker now, zigzagging between shafts of light, their wings catching the sun in flashes. One landed on her knee, then flitted away. Another hovered near her son’s shoulder before darting off again.

The lake gave them space. The lake asked nothing in return.

Eventually, they stood and brushed off the grass. But instead of heading straight back, they turned toward the meadow—the healing woman’s sanctuary. Her heart softened as it came into view: the same tall grasses, the same bloom-strewn field that had held her yesterday like a quiet friend.

She didn’t need to ask. Her son followed her in without hesitation.

The flowers were even brighter today under the stronger light. Buttercups nodded along the trail, and a cluster of pink milkweed had fully opened, inviting monarchs and bees to visit. She stopped to photograph it again, framing the soft explosion of color against the blue sky.

They returned to the oak and laid out the blanket once more. But today, it wasn’t just about resting.

Today, it was about holding onto what had been found.

She sat cross-legged, camera in hand, slowly reviewing the images they had captured: turtles stacked in a perfect sunlit row, mallards gliding like brushstrokes across the lake, her son leaning over the water’s edge, silhouetted by willow branches.

She glanced at him, lying quietly in the grass again, eyes half-closed. A red-winged blackbird sang somewhere in the distance, and the wind stirred the flowers gently, as if the meadow itself breathed.

“I wish we could stay longer,” she said.

“I think we’ll always come back here,” he answered.

She smiled, feeling the truth of it settle into her ribs.

Later, as they walked back through the trees and the world grew more familiar with each step, she looked down at her hands—the camera in one, her son’s hoodie slung over the other—and thought about the stillness of water, the wildness of wings, and the unexpected peace that came when you didn’t walk the world alone.

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