What do you lose when the pool’s silent?

It’s 3 a.m. and the pool’s empty, but not quiet. The water’s still holding the echo of laps from last night—someone swam for ninety minutes, didn’t talk to anyone, just moved through the dark like they were remembering something. I keep thinking: what does silence do when it’s not broken by laughter or splashing? Is it just absence, or is it full of things we don’t name? What do we miss when we stop listening?