Water for the Waking

The alarm screamed at 6:30 AM, and Sarah rose like the dead—another day, another ritual. She washed down a B-complex vitamin with tap water, the pill clicking against her teeth. The bottle promised energy, promised vitality, promised something she hadn't felt in three years of corporate existence.

Her cat, Barnaby, watched from the bathroom counter with judgment in his green eyes. He was the only living thing that saw her before she became the zombie she presented to the world. He demanded breakfast with a demanding meow, unaware that his owner had forgotten how to want anything.

At the office, Sarah moved through meetings and spreadsheets in a trance. Her coworker Tom caught her by the water cooler, his eyes tired but kind. "You look like hell," he said, not unkindly.

"Feel like it too." She filled her paper cup. The water cooler hummed, a constant burbling that reminded her of aquariums and fish swimming in circles, going nowhere.

"My mom died last year," Tom said suddenly. "For six months, I was a zombie. Just going through motions. Then I saw this documentary about salmon swimming upstream, fighting against currents to die where they were born. And I thought—hell, at least they're fighting something."

Sarah stared at the water swirling in her cup. "I take vitamins every morning. I have a cat who loves me. I have a job that pays well. I should be happy."

"Should is the word that kills us." Tom's phone buzzed. He checked it, sighed. "I'm going to start taking photographs again. This weekend. You should come. Bring your camera."

"I sold it when I moved to the city. Said I didn't have time."

"Bullshit. You're afraid." He walked away, leaving her with her paper cup of water.

That night, Sarah sat on her fire escape, watching rain water pool on the asphalt below. Barnaby rubbed against her leg, purring like a small engine. She thought about salmon fighting currents, about Tom's dead mother, about the vitamins that were supposed to fix what wasn't broken but simply asleep.

Inside, her phone glowed with a message from Tom: Saturday, 7 AM, the river.

She didn't reply immediately. Instead, she finished her wine and went to the closet where she'd buried her old camera bag under winter coats and forgotten intentions. The zipper stuck. She yanked harder.

The camera smelled like dust and memories. When she looked through the lens, the streetlights below blurred into something beautiful, something worth seeing.

Barnaby meowed at the door, demanding to be let out into the rain. Sarah didn't stop him. Some things needed to get wet to feel alive.