The Drowning of Time

The sun beat down on the outdoor pool where Emma had once taught him to swim, three months before the accident. Daniel sat on the same chaise lounge they'd shared, his fedora pulled low against the glare. At forty-two, he was still the man who wore hats to funerals, who carried his iphone like a talisman of a life that no longer existed.

The device buzzed in his pocket—the third time this hour. Work, probably. Or his sister, checking if he'd eaten. Daniel ignored it, staring at the blue water where Emma had laughed, her summer dress billowing around her thighs, while he'd splashed gracelessly at the shallow end. "You're too much in your head," she'd said, pushing his wet hair from his eyes. "Let go."

He hadn't known how to let go then. He still didn't.

A splash broke his reverie. A woman in her thirties surfaced near the diving board, her strokes smooth and practiced. She wore a baseball cap backwards—something Emma would've done, would've laughed about while wringing out her hair.

Daniel's thumb hovered over his phone, opening the photos folder he'd promised himself he'd delete. The first image: Emma underwater, bubbles streaming from her nose, her eyes squeezed shut in joy. The second: his own hand holding a melting ice cream cone, her laughing face just out of frame.

The hat felt heavy on his head. The phone burned in his hand. The pool reflected a sky so blue it hurt.

He stood up, surprising himself. The woman in the pool waved, as if inviting him in. For the first time since the hospital, Daniel thought maybe he could learn to swim again. Maybe some things weren't lost forever—just submerged, waiting to be found.

He placed his hat on the empty chair beside him. He left the phone on top of it, screen-down. Then he walked toward the water, one slow step at a time, and finally, he let go.