Source A: The pool after closing

The pool had been drained for repairs, but the doors were open while the caretaker checked the building. I had not expected the emptiness to be so loud. My footsteps crossed the tiles and came back to me, thinner each time. At the deep end, a blue cap lay where the water should have been.

I had promised my brother I would find it. He had left it there on the last afternoon before moving away, and I had laughed when he said it mattered. Now the cap looked small against the pale floor. I climbed down the metal steps, gripping both rails. The whole place smelled of dust instead of chlorine. Without the water, the painted lane lines seemed to lead nowhere.

For a while I stood beside the cap. I could have picked it up at once, but the empty pool made the task feel strangely formal, as if I had arrived too late for something. The caretaker’s keys rattled at the far door. I bent quickly, then stopped. The blue fabric had faded at the edges. I remembered my brother racing me from one end to the other, always turning before I did.

I lifted the cap and rubbed the dust from it with my sleeve. The gesture was useless; the cloth stayed grey. I nearly put it back. Instead, I carried it up the steps, one hand on the rail, one hand closed around the cap. At the top, the caretaker held the door for me and said nothing.

From the doorway, I saw the late sun catch the tiles through the high windows, making them look wet. I had expected the cap to feel like a message I could send him. It did not. It was only a cap, light in my palm. Still, I folded it carefully into my pocket. The pool had given me nothing back, I thought, and then corrected myself: it had given me a place to say goodbye, even if I had not said a word.