Arthur Caldwell had grown used to silence. His house, once alive with the gentle shuffle of his wife’s slippers and the faint hum of her favorite radio station, now echoed with the small sounds he made to fill the emptiness.
The sounds of cutlery against porcelain, the hiss of the kettle, the steady click of shoes across the patio. His days were deliberate. A retired chemistry teacher, he found purpose in maintenance: the roses she had planted, the oak banister she had admired, and above all, the pool she had cherished.