Breathing Underwater

The alarm blared at 5:30 AM, and Sarah rose from bed like clockwork—another day of moving through life as if already dead. Three years after Mark's funeral, she'd become expert at this particular form of existence: the zombie widow who showed up to work, smiled at the right moments, and felt absolutely nothing. Her colleagues praised her resilience. They didn't know she'd forgotten how to drown.

At 6:00, she leashed Buster—the aging golden retriever Mark had surprised her with for their tenth anniversary—and drove to the lake. The morning air bit at her exposed skin as she waded into the water, Buster paddling enthusiastically beside her. Swimming was the only time her mind quieted, the rhythmic stroke and cold water forcing her into her body instead of the empty place where her heart used to be.

"Come on, old man," she called to Buster, already twenty yards offshore. The dog hesitated—hip dysplasia catching up with him—then pushed forward with determination.

Today, something shifted. Maybe it was the way the early light caught the water's surface, transforming chop into gold. Maybe it was Buster's stubborn loyalty, swimming despite pain. Sarah stopped treading water and let herself sink, just for a moment. The silence rushed in, peaceful and absolute. She could simply let go. No more zombie existence. No more pretending.

Buster's wet muzzle nudged her shoulder, insistent, and she broke the surface, gasping. The dog swam circles around her, barking—joyful, alive, demanding she return.

Sarah laughed. It hurt, like swallowing glass after years of silence. She wrapped an arm around Buster's buoyant body and let him tow her toward shore, both of them swimming against the current, together.

"Okay," she whispered to the water, to Mark's memory, to herself. "Okay."

The zombie had begun to resuscitate.