Still Water

The lake was glass at dawn, the kind of stillness that felt like holding your breath. Elena slipped into the water, the cold biting her skin, waking her in ways coffee never could. She'd taken up swimming again after the miscarriage, finding something holy in the rhythm of stroke and breath, in the way the world narrowed to nothing but the next gasp of air.

That's when she saw the bear across the water—a massive dark shape standing at the treeline, watching. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The dog, Buster, usually so vocal, pressed silent against her leg, his fur risen.

Then the bear moved, and it wasn't a bear at all. It was a man in a dark coat, standing completely still.

A fox darted through the brush behind him, copper-bright and unafraid, and in that moment of distraction, Elena recognized the coat. It was Daniel's, the one she'd given him last Christmas. But Daniel was supposed to be in Chicago, closing the deal that would save them from drowning in medical debt.

Unless he wasn't.

The spy in her marriage turned out to be her own husband, watching his wife swim while he pretended to be three states away. She treaded water, suddenly cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. The fox disappeared into the woods. Buster whined, sensing her unraveling.

Daniel didn't call out. Didn't wave. Just watched, as if she were something he needed to remember before letting go. Elena understood then that she wasn't the only one drowning in their marriage. The water cradled her, weightless, while the weight of everything settled on her chest like stone.