The Weight of Water

The dog — Arthur, a golden retriever with one gray ear — waited by the door as I stuffed my feet into running shoes. It had been six months since Elena died. Six months of mornings where the only thing keeping me moving was Arthur's expectant gaze and the crushing silence of our duplex.

We didn't go running anymore. Neither of us had the heart for it. Instead, we walked to the community pool, where I'd swim laps while Arthur watched from the shade, his chin resting on his paws like a furry philosopher.

"You're here early," called Marcus, the pool's manager. He stood near the padel courts, racket in hand, sweat glistening on his dark skin. "Want to join? Elena's old partner, Sarah, she's been asking about you."

The mention of her name stopped me cold. Elena had loved padel — the sound of the ball, the strategy, the way she'd laugh when she missed an easy shot. I'd never played. Had always found excuses.

"Maybe someday," I said, pulling my swim cap down.

Swimming became my church. In the water, weightless and blue, I could almost hear Elena's voice in the rhythm of my strokes. *You have to live again, Marco. Not just exist.* She'd said that the night before the car accident, her hand warm in mine.

Arthur barked as I emerged from the water, shaking droplets from my hair. A woman sat on the bench nearby, Elena's favorite blue hat — the one with the embroidered sunflowers — resting on her head.

"Sarah?" I asked, dripping wet.

She looked up, startled, then smiled sadly. "He gave me this, before... said it looked better on me."

"She had great taste."

"Play with me tomorrow?" Sarah asked, already standing. "Eight AM. Court three."

I looked at Arthur, who thumped his tail against the concrete. For the first time in six months, the silence didn't feel like drowning.

"We'll be there."