Every morning he tested the water, reading the pH strips with precision, skimming the surface until it gleamed like glass. It wasn’t just upkeep. It was memory. Each clear reflection reminded him of her smile, of the evenings she floated beneath the stars, of mornings when she had coaxed him in for laps before breakfast.
But when Arthur wasn’t tending to the home, he found his peace by the river. Fishing had always been his quiet refuge. With rod and thermos in hand, he could lose hours listening to the water, patient in a way only age and solitude allowed.