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.