Chlorine Memory

The pool hadn't been drained in years. Green scum lined the tile edges where children once laughed, where she once floated on her back tracing constellations in the sky. Three years since the accident, and still Sarah couldn't bring herself to touch the water.

"You're doing it again," Marcus said, appearing in the back doorway with two mugs of coffee. "Bearing the weight of things that aren't yours to carry."

She took the mug without turning. The ceramic warmth against her palms was the only real thing in this hollowed-out version of their marriage. They stayed for the house, for appearances, for the exhausting comfort of shared misery.

"Her birthday's coming up," Sarah said.

"I know."

"She would have been seven."

Marcus set his cup down on the patio table with a soft clink. "She also would have hated that shade of orange we painted her room. Remember how she cried?"

Sarah almost smiled. Almost. The memory was sharp enough to cut: Emma's tear-streaked face, the terrifyingly bright walls, the way she'd begged for blue instead. They'd repainted the next weekend. Blue like the pool, blue like the sky Emma had wanted to touch.

"I was thinking," Sarah said finally, turning from the water's stagnant surface, "maybe we sell. Start over somewhere without ghosts in every room."

Marcus's expression shifted — something fragile breaking through his practiced neutrality. Hope or fear, she couldn't tell anymore.

"And us?" he asked.

The pool reflected the first stars of evening, its surface still and waiting. Sarah set down her coffee and reached for his hand across the table.

"Maybe we figure that out too. Or maybe we don't. But either way, Marcus — I can't keep drowning in this same water."