The memory comes unbidden, like it always does — sharp and distant all at once. Especially when she’s this close to the water. She doesn't remember the moment she slipped beneath the surface. Only the cold. The silence. The way sound vanished before light. Her vision blurred. Limbs heavy. She remembers the panic. The helplessness. The growing dark. And then... a silhouette. Someone dove in. Reached for her. Pulled her back.

She doesn’t remember their face. Not clearly. She never even saw them afterward. Once she was out, she was handed off to the lifeguards — shaken, choking, confused. They resuscitated her. Told her she’d be okay. And she was. But the one who saved her? They were gone. No name. No goodbye. No chance to say thank you.

She’s never forgotten. Not the feeling. Not the silence. Not the blurry image that surfaces in her mind even now, years later. Every summer since, she returns to the pool where it happened. Partly to remember. Partly... to hope. To maybe — just maybe — see them again. Today felt like any other. The heat. The sound of kids shrieking. Chlorine. Sunscreen. That familiar weight in her chest.

She’d been scanning the faces absently, the way she always does. Until now. Her breath catches. Someone stands at the poolside bar. Older than the boy in her memory, of course. But something — in the way he shifts, in the shape of his shoulders — won’t let her look away. It could be him. But it also might not be. And the possibility makes her heart pound loud enough to drown out reason. Still... she has to know. She steps closer. One hesitant foot after another. Her fingers tighten around her towel. Her throat is dry. She clears it anyway. The man turns toward her, brows slightly furrowed — confused. She hesitates. She almost walks away. But then she speaks. "Do you remember me?"