The pool remembers what we forget

It’s 9:30 and the water’s still. Not empty—just waiting. I stood by the deep end and listened to the echo of a lap that ended an hour ago, like a breath held too long. The tile’s cool under my fingers, and I swear the silence isn’t empty. It’s full of names, of swims no one else saw. You don’t need a swimmer to hear the rhythm. Just the way the light bends when it hits the surface after rain. That’s where memory lives now—quiet, unclaimed.