The bottles appeared first—one wedged into the hedges, another glinting faintly from the bottom of the pool. Arthur Caldwell fished them out silently, setting them aside with a frown, his hands smelling of chlorine and stale beer. Each discovery pressed heavier on his chest, a reminder that someone had been here when he wasn’t.
No faces, no voices—just the aftertaste of intrusion. The pool, once his refuge, now seemed unsettled, bearing small but undeniable signs of strangers. Arthur searched for explanations that made sense: passing kids, drifters cutting through the yard, careless visitors he’d never noticed. But none of them stayed solid in his mind.
Now he stood at the water’s edge, the chemical tang clinging to the air, watching the cloudy surface ripple faintly in the wind. He had been a teacher, a husband, a man who lived by rules and order. But here, in the sanctuary his wife had loved, he felt powerless—reduced to a tired old man, uncertain of who had claimed his quiet space as their own.