Dead Water Whispers

That swimming hall had been abandoned for a long time. Long enough for the notice posted by the city government on the faded iron gate to change from "Temporarily Closed for Electrical Maintenance" to "Structurally Unsafe, No Entry," and finally, to just a sheet of white paper, eroded by wind and rain until the characters were almost illegible, like a perfunctory band-aid unable to conceal the ever-thickening stillness within.

I don't know why, but I was always drawn to it. Especially after having exactly two glasses of whiskey on the rocks – no more, no less. The city felt like a giant, high-speed tumble dryer, jumbling everything dizzily. Only the swimming hall, like a forgotten sock in the corner of the machine, remained quietly curled up, exuding an almost stubborn scent, out of place with its surroundings. Not just mustiness, nor the lingering smell of chlorine, but more like... how to put it? Like the scent of time itself, settled, tinged with dust and the hopeless aroma of green algae.

The official "Reasons Not Recommended for Swimming in the Dead Water Pool" – I looked them up on a search engine one boring afternoon. There was a long list, a dozen or so items, ranging from the obvious – excessive bacteria levels, parasite risks – to the slightly bizarre-sounding "eutrophication leading to the breeding of unknown organisms," and even a vaguely worded "detrimental to physical and mental health." Written with such seriousness, as if not taking a dip would render one's life incomplete, insufficiently "unhealthy." This fervor reminded me of my middle school dean, passionately arguing, spittle flying, how puppy love would ruin a life – logically rigorous, full of enthusiasm, yet hardly anyone truly believed him.

One early summer evening, the air muggy like a damp towel pressed against the face, I stopped, for the third, perhaps fourth time, before that rust-spotted iron gate. The lock had long been broken; it was ajar, like a half-hearted invitation pretending reluctance. I pushed the gate open. It creaked, the sound bouncing in the empty hall like a pebble dropped into a deep well.

Inside, it was darker than I expected. Light struggled to squeeze through the grime-covered skylights high above, barely outlining the pool's shape. The water was an eerie ink-green, with some indescribable flocculent matter and a few dead leaves floating on the surface. The water's surface was as calm as a huge, solidified block of jelly, without a single ripple. The air was filled with that familiar, settled scent of time, only stronger now.

I walked slowly along the edge of the pool. My footsteps seemed infinitely amplified, then swiftly swallowed by the silence. Thin moss grew in the cracks between the tiles, like some kind of secret script. I imagined how it used to be: noisy children, splashing water, sunlight piercing the skylights and dancing on the surface... But those images were blurry, as if seen through frosted glass. Only the dead stillness before me felt utterly real.

When I reached the area below the diving platform, I saw someone. An old man, wearing faded blue work clothes, sitting on a worn-out plastic chair by the pool edge. He held a broom, but wasn't sweeping; he was just quietly gazing at the pool of dead water. He didn't seem to notice my intrusion, or perhaps he did, but didn't care.

"'They say this water is toxic'," I blurted out nonsensically. My voice sounded particularly jarring in the emptiness.

The old man slowly turned his head. His face was expressionless, wrinkles like a dry riverbed. "'Toxic?' he repeated, his voice hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time. 'What thing, left long enough, doesn't change its flavor?'"

The reply was interesting. Not like a property guard, more like an unappreciated philosopher. "'But the notice says there are bacteria, and... unknown organisms'," I tried to steer the conversation back to reality.

"'The notice is written for outsiders'," the old man said, turning his gaze back to the water. "'For those who need reasons. Just like people need to eat and sleep to live, if you're not going in, you need an explanation.' His words were like bubbles rising from the bottom of the water, bursting softly, leaving no trace. This tone reminded me of a guy I knew who always spouted nonsense like 'existence is void, and void is also a form of existence.' But the old man's words lacked that deliberate obfuscation; there was only a profound calm, as if he had merged with this pool of dead water.

"'And you?' I asked. 'What are you doing here?'"

"'Watching the water,' he said. 'The water doesn't move, but things inside it do.'"

I moved closer to the edge, trying to see what was in the water. The ink-green water was unfathomably deep; the light only illuminated the shallows. I saw nothing, but felt the water was like a huge magnet, pulling my gaze into it. A strange impulse surged within me. I wanted to strip off my clothes, jump in, feel the embrace of the dead water. Not to swim, not to defy a prohibition, just... to get in. As natural as a thirsty person wanting water.

"'Ever been in?' The old man seemed to read my mind."

I shook my head.

"'Best not,' he said, his tone flat, less a warning than a statement of fact. 'Some things, once they stick to you, can't be washed off.' He paused, then added, 'Not dirt. Something else.'"

"'Something else?'"

The old man said no more, lapsing back into silence, like a sculpture blending into the background.

I stood by the pool, feeling the call of the dead water. It had no waves, no sound, yet it seemed to whisper, telling secrets about time, about forgetting, about existence itself. Those official reasons – bacteria, parasites, unknown organisms – seemed so pale and weak now. What truly unsettled, or rather, truly attracted, was the utter stillness it represented, a state bordering on nothingness. Outside, the city clamored, life bustled; but here, everything had stopped, decayed, settled.

I thought of Camus, of Sisyphus and his stone. Perhaps within each of us lies such a pool of dead water. We keep busy, trying to fill it with various 'reasons,' or bypass it, pretending it doesn't exist. But it's there, waiting silently, exuding the scent of time.

In the end, I didn't jump in. Not because I feared those 'unknown organisms,' nor because of the old man's advice. I just felt the time wasn't right. Or perhaps, I wasn't 'quiet' enough yet to truly understand the whispers of the dead water.

I left the swimming hall and returned to the muggy street. Traffic, voices, neon lights surged back like a tide. Everything that just happened felt like a dream, but the scent of the dead water, that heavy silence, clung to my skin like damp clothes. I knew I would go back again. Not for any particular reason, just to listen again to the whispers by the dead water, to hear what they were saying. Maybe they said nothing. Maybe they said a lot. It doesn't matter. What matters is that such a place exists, a place that allows you to do nothing, just watch time slowly, stubbornly, decay. That itself, perhaps, is a kind of fucked-up freedom.