The sun had shifted from directly overhead to a little to the west.
The light changed from vertical to slanted.
It cut a clear line between light and shadow across the water.
Half the pool was lit by the sun, sparkling.
The other half lay in the shadow of a nearby structure.
The water there was dark – like unmixed ink.
The regular area had fewer people than in the morning.
The queue was shorter, but still there.
Some people were packing up to leave.
Some were applying sunscreen.
Some were lying by the pool with their eyes closed, savouring the last of the day's sunlight.
The VIP area was still empty.
The towels on the chairs were folded neatly.
The numbered tags on the armrests swayed gently in the breeze.
The seagull had come back.
It crouched on the top of a backrest, tilting its head to look at the regular area.
Its wings were folded against its body.
The feathers fluffed slightly in the wind.
The heat in the air had lessened somewhat.
The stifling, steaming heat had turned into a drier, oven‑like warmth.
The water surface reflected the light, dazzling the eyes.
The young mother appeared again.
She stood at the edge of the crowd, not queuing.
Her child lay on her shoulder, awake.
Its tiny hands clutched her collar.
The nails were cut very short.
The plastic bag still hung from her wrist.
No longer nappies – a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits.
The water was half drunk, condensation beading on the plastic.
The corner of the biscuit wrapper was crumpled, as if it had been opened and resealed.
She didn't come over.
She just stood there, looking.
At the pool.
At the shattered light on the water.
At the people splashing in it.
Her expression was flat. Impossible to read.
The child squirmed on her shoulder.
She shifted it to the other shoulder.
The movement was practised and smooth.
She didn't look at the child.
Her gaze stayed on the water.
I stood by the edge of the pool.
The small gear on the X‑shaped ties on my back swayed gently in the wind.
Silent.
The gear was silver‑grey.
Its surface was etched with extremely fine lines that caught the sunlight.
The thin straps crossed below my shoulder blades.
The intersection was exactly on my spine.
The gear hung there, rising and falling gently with my breath.
Dianzi crouched beside me.
She took Lychee out of her bag and held it up to look at the water.
Lychee tilted its head.
Its black‑bean eyes were round and shiny.
Its mouth was stitched into a crooked line.
Dianzi smoothed the rumpled fur on its head.
Then she stood up, stepped back two paces, and aimed the floating interface at me.
"My treasures," she said. "Today we'll break down the hand gestures of belly dance."
I raised both hands towards the lens.
I turned my wrists and flicked my fingertips gently, as if plucking invisible strings.
I pushed my palms outward from my chest, then brought them back in, stopping at my waist.
My hips swayed in rhythm – just a small movement.
But the shadow on my waist bent with the light.
The curve from my lower ribs to my hip bones was clearly defined.
[chat] The gestures are so elegant
[chat] Wife's hands are so soft
[chat] I learned it
[chat] Your fingers look like they're dancing
"Yes, that's it," I said. "Relax your wrists. Don't let your fingertips get stiff."
I slowed the movement down.
I broke it into three beats.
First beat – wrists turn upward, fingertips point to the ceiling.
Second beat – wrists turn outward, fingertips point to the sides.
Third beat – wrists come back in, fingertips stop at the waist.
Dianzi pushed the lens closer, focusing on my hands.
Sunlight slipped through the gaps between my fingers, casting long thin shadows on the base of my palms.
My nails were coated with a clear protective layer.
They caught a faint gleam of light.
The young mother watched for a while.
Her gaze shifted from the water to my hands, then to my face.
Her lips moved slightly, as if mouthing something to herself.
I couldn't hear what she said.
The water was too loud, and the wind kept pulling the sound away.
But her eyes – they weren't watching the dance anymore.
She was watching something else.
Something behind the movement.
Maybe she was remembering a time when she had moved like that.
Before the baby. Before the layoff. Before everything got so heavy.
A time when her body had belonged to her alone.
When she could raise her arms without a child clinging to her collar.
When she could sway her hips without a plastic bag swinging from her wrist.
Then she blinked.
The spell broke.
She turned and took two steps away.
Then she stopped.
She looked back.
"Thank you."
Her voice wasn't loud – the sound of the water cut half of it away.
But every word was clear.
"Thank you for making me feel like someone still wants to listen to me."
She smiled.
The smile began at the corners of her mouth and spread toward her cheekbones.
But it stopped halfway.
Not withdrawn – stuck.
Like a string pulled too tight that, when plucked, had no vibration left and simply snapped.
I had seen that kind of smile before.
On people who had stopped expecting anything.
Who had learned not to let hope show on their faces.
Because hope only made the fall harder.
Then she lowered her head and looked at the child in her arms.
The child squirmed on her shoulder.
She tucked its blanket in.
The movement was very gentle, as if afraid of disturbing something.
Then she turned and walked away.
This time she didn't look back.
The sunlight stretched her shadow long across the non‑slip mat – twice her size.
The plastic bag swung from her wrist.
Swing, swing, further and further.
A drop of water fell from the bag.
It hit the mat and spread into a small dark circle.
Then another drop.
Then the bag was out of sight.
When she reached the pool exit, she stopped.
Her back was to me.
Her shoulders lifted slightly, as if she had taken a deep breath.
Then she pushed the door open and walked out.
The door closed behind her, sealing the pool sounds inside.
[chat] That mother came back again
[chat] She smiled but put it away so quickly
[chat] A bit heartbreaking
[chat] Wishing her well
——The speed at which she withdrew her smile was twice as fast as a normal person's.
She had practised putting it away.
Not showing it – hiding it.
Hiding it so well that even she might have forgotten she still knew how to smile.
I lowered my hands.
The small gear on my spine swayed once.
Dianzi pulled the lens back, framing both me and the pool.
"All right, my treasures," I said. "That's it for today.
Practise the wrist movements at home.
Ten minutes a day, and you'll see a difference in a week."
[chat] Okay, wife
[chat] See you tomorrow
[chat] Bye bye 🌊
[chat] Thanks for your hard work, daughter
I turned off the interface.
I put my phone into my cross‑body bag.
Dianzi stood up.
She tucked Lychee back into her bag and brushed the dust off her knees.
"Sister," she said.
"Yes."
"What she said just now – it was different from before."
"How?"
"Before, when she said thank you, it was polite.
This time, when she said thank you, she really meant it."
"Yes," I said. "Because she realised we weren't pitying her.
We were treating her like a person."
Dianzi hesitated, then nodded.
We walked out of the pool area.
As we passed the regular area, the puddles on the ground had already dried, leaving only white marks.
A cleaner crouched by the bins, picking up scattered towels and folding them.
Her movements were slow.
She bent very low, pausing each time she picked up a towel.
The towels were white.
She stacked them neatly after folding.
Back in the room, Dianzi went to shower.
I sat by the window.
Outside, the sea was still bright.
The sun hadn't set yet.
The light had shifted from honey to orange, spreading a warm glow across the water.
The navigation light in the distance hadn't come on yet.
It would wait until the sky was completely dark before starting to blink.
The water in the bathroom stopped.
Dianzi came out wrapped in a towel, her hair wet.
She climbed into bed and hugged Lychee.
"Sister," she said. "Aren't you washing?"
"In a while," I said. "You sleep first."
She closed her eyes.
Her breathing slowly became even.
Lychee was hugged in her arms.
Its grey head poked out from under the duvet.
Its expression was blank.
Its mouth was crooked to the left.
I sat by the window, looking at the orange‑lit sea.
The sun was sinking.
The orange‑red band at the horizon was growing narrower – as if someone were cutting it with a knife.
The light on the water shifted from bright to dark, from warm to cool.
The waves kept coming.
Layer after layer, breaking into white foam at the ship's side, retreating into the sea, then coming again.
Without stopping.