Flash Fiction - “Where the Water Holds”
The light is neither bright nor dim, but softened—filtered through cloud and reflection, as if the sky itself has learned restraint. The water holds everything without comment: bridges, buildings, passing clouds, the slow drift of leaves. Nothing here rushes. Nothing demands to be seen.
She walks alongside the canal at an unhurried pace, coat buttoned, hands relaxed at her sides. The city moves around her with quiet competence—bicycles passing in steady lines, footsteps measured, conversations kept low. The Netherlands has a way of honoring proximity without intrusion. People share space without claiming it.
She breathes in, then out.
There was a time when her body did not trust afternoons. When light felt exposing rather than kind. But today, the light does not ask her to explain herself. It simply rests on the surface of things and moves on.
She stops at a bridge and leans lightly against the railing. Below, the canal carries small ripples outward from an unseen source. She watches how quickly the water absorbs disruption, smoothing itself again. Not erasing what happened—just holding it without panic.
A verse comes to mind, not sharply, but like a settled truth:
“For God is not the author of confusion, but of peace.” — 1 Corinthians 14:33
She lets the words remain where they land.
The bridge beneath her feet is solid, unyielding. Built to carry weight repeatedly without complaint. She appreciates this about the place—how much of it is engineered to endure. How little is decorative without purpose.
A group of cyclists passes, bells chiming briefly—not as warning, but courtesy. She nods instinctively, stepping slightly aside. The exchange is simple, mutual, complete.
Agency, she has learned, often looks like this: small choices made without fear.
She continues walking, passing narrow houses that lean close to one another, each distinct yet cooperative. The windows reveal ordinary life—plants on sills, a lamp turned on early, someone rinsing a cup. Nothing performs. Nothing hides.
She notices how safe it feels to be unremarkable.
The canal bends gently ahead, drawing her toward a quieter stretch where the water widens. Here, the reflections deepen. The buildings stretch long and slow across the surface, less precise than their originals, softened by motion.
She watches herself appear there too—not clearly, not sharply. Just a presence among others.
Once, she would have tried to define what she saw. To correct it. To control the outline. Now, she allows the reflection to remain incomplete.
The water does not insist on clarity. It insists on continuity.
A breeze lifts, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and distant greenery. The air feels clean, deliberate. She closes her eyes briefly, grounding herself in the moment—not to escape, but to remain.
There is no threat here. No narrative unfolding that she must brace against. The afternoon simply continues.
She walks past a small park bordering the canal. Children play quietly, watched but not hovered over. A dog lies near a bench, uninterested in spectacle. A woman reads, legs crossed, attention inward.
She does not linger. Observation does not require ownership.
Further along, the bells of a nearby church mark the hour—clear, measured, unhurried. The sound spreads outward, touching the water, the streets, the sky. It does not command. It marks time and releases it again.
Another verse surfaces, steady and familiar:
“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10
She feels the sound and the words settle together in her chest.
There were years when sound startled her—when suddenness meant danger. Now, sound can arrive and depart without leaving harm behind. This, too, is restoration.
She resumes walking, letting the rhythm of her steps align with the city’s pace. There is comfort in moving alongside something steady, something that does not react to her presence but accommodates it.
As evening approaches, lights begin to appear—not all at once, not dramatically. Just enough to signal care. Lamps along the canal glow softly, tracing the path without overwhelming it. Windows warm. Reflections multiply.
The water accepts the lights easily.
She pauses again, this time on a lower bridge, close enough to see small movements beneath the surface. A bird skims the water briefly, then lifts away. The ripples widen, then fade.
She thinks of how much of life passes like this—brief contact, gentle disturbance, return to calm.
There was a season when she believed every disturbance required explanation. When she felt responsible for smoothing every ripple, even those not caused by her. That belief was heavy. It did not come from God.
She remembers the words clearly now:
“Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28
She releases the weight, watching the water finish its work.
The sky deepens into a muted blue-gray. Evening has arrived fully, without ceremony. The city adjusts. People adjust. She adjusts.
She walks back along the canal, retracing her steps without resistance. There is no urgency to reach a destination. The walking itself has been enough.
At one final bridge, she stops and rests her hands on the railing. The metal is cool, grounding. The water below is darker now, holding light instead of reflecting sky.
One last verse rises—not as instruction, but as recognition:
“He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.” — Psalm 23:3
She whispers a simple prayer—not shaped for publication, not polished. Just offered.
There is no response she can hear. None is needed.
She stands for a moment longer, then turns and walks on, leaving the canal behind her. It continues without her, faithful in its course.
Somewhere ahead, night will settle. Tomorrow will come. Stories will be written. But none of that presses into this moment.
Here, in the Netherlands, beside the water that holds without consuming, she has learned again what peace can feel like: structured, gentle, unafraid.
And that is enough.
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