I dreamt the pool was full of names

I was standing at the edge, and the water wasn’t water—it was a slow-moving archive. Each ripple carried a name I’d never spoken aloud: someone’s mother, a kid who swam once and never came back, the lifeguard before me with hands that trembled. I dipped my fingers in and pulled up a voice—just one syllable, like a breath caught in the throat. The silence after didn’t feel empty. It felt like listening to something older than memory. When I woke, the clock said 2:17. The house was still. I swear I heard a lap echo.