Watermarks

The apartment complex pool was empty at midnight, which was exactly why Elena sat on its edge, her feet dangling in the chlorinated water. She held her father's old fedora—rumpled, sweat-stained, smelling of him even after three years.

A cat jumped onto the adjacent lounge chair. Not hers. Not anyone's, really. Just the complex's stray, orange-striped and confident, watching Elena with the detached judgment only cats can summon.

"You again," she said.

The cat meowed once, a sound like tearing paper.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus. Are you coming up?

She should. Marcus had been patient through this week's anniversary of her father's death. He'd held her at the funeral. He'd listened to the same stories about her father's jazz band days, his philosophy lectures, his perfect martini recipe. Marcus was exactly the kind of friend you wanted when grief swallowed you whole.

But lately, when he touched her shoulder, she felt nothing.

The cat approached, sniffed the hat, then rubbed its cheek against the brim. Something about the gesture made Elena's chest tight.

She pulled her feet from the pool. Water dripped from her ankles onto concrete. The ripples settled into stillness, like everything eventually did.

Marcus had asked, just last night, if she wanted to try again—them, really. He'd loved her for years. She'd known, obviously. The knowledge lived between them like a third person, quiet and patient.

The cat settled on the hat, curling into a circle. Claiming it.

Elena stood. The night air was cold on her wet skin. She thought about what her father would say—something about not borrowing time you couldn't repay, something about how grief made ghosts of the living too.

She left the hat with the cat. Let someone else carry the weight for a while.

Going up now, she texted Marcus. But she didn't say what came next. Some words had to wait for morning.