The Court at Dusk

The padel ball cracked against the glass wall, a sharp report that echoed in the empty club. Elena wiped sweat from her forehead, her breathing ragged in the humidity. She'd been playing alone for forty minutes, each swing an attempt to exhaust the thoughts that had been circling her all day.

Outside, rain sheeted down, water drumming against the metal roof in a relentless rhythm. She should go home. David would be waiting, probably worried, maybe angry. Probably both.

Her phone buzzed on the bench. A photo from Sarah: Buster, their golden retriever, sprawled on David's feet, both of them asleep on the couch. The dog had been David's idea—a distraction, he'd said, something to focus on. Elena had resisted. Who had time for a puppy when their marriage was already dissolving like sugar in warm water?

She'd been wrong. Buster had become the third point in their triangle of grief, the one who still needed walks and belly rubs when neither of them could get out of bed. The dog had saved them, she realized, though it had taken her six months to admit it.

The memories still came in waves. The hospital room. The silence afterward. The way their son Mateo had looked in his baseball uniform that last season—lean and confident, hat pulled low, convinced he'd make varsity as a freshman. He had. He'd never played a game.

A notification from the hospital app. Mateo's room number and bed assignment, same as always. They still held it for him every year on this date. David would be there already, sitting in the plastic chair, talking to their dead son about his grades, his college applications, the future that never came.

Elena picked up her racket. One more serve. But her hand trembled, and she lowered it again. The ball dropped from her fingers, rolled across the court.

She let herself weep, finally. The dog would be waiting. Her husband would be waiting. And somewhere, in the space between the water and the glass, her son was still seventeen, still rounding third base, still forever home.