The Goldfish in the Wall

The cable guy was the first person I'd spoken to in three days. He found me staring at the wall where the plaster had cracked, revealing something shimmering behind it.

"Ma'am? You okay?" His voice startled me. I hadn't realized I was crying until the water dripped onto my collarbone, cold against my skin.

"There's something in there," I whispered.

He followed my gaze. "Looks like... is that a goldfish?"

It was. Or what remained of one—suspended in what must have been a wedding photo or a child's drawing, sealed behind decades of renovations. The previous owners must have dropped something precious into the wet plaster, never knowing it would fossilize there, waiting.

"Weird things happen in old houses," he said, tightening the coaxial cable with practiced indifference. "People hide stuff. People leave stuff behind."

I thought about Sarah. About the way she used to braid my hair on our balcony in graduate school, her fingers deft and warm, promising we'd be friends forever. About the voicemail I'd left three weeks ago that she still hadn't returned. About how she'd moved across the country without saying goodbye, leaving our friendship like something dropped into wet plaster—preserved, suspended, unreachable.

"Hey," the cable guy said gently. "You want me to leave? I can come back."

"No." I straightened my spine. "I'm fine."

He left with a nod. The TV worked now, flickering with people pretending to have important conversations, pretending not to be lonely.

I pressed my palm to the crack. Behind the wall, the goldfish swam in its eternal ocean, trapped and beautiful and utterly still. Some things get buried on purpose. Some things just slip through the cracks. Either way, they stop being yours to keep.

I picked up my phone and deleted Sarah's contact. Not because I was angry. Because sometimes the only way to stop waiting for something to change is to accept that it never will.