He drifted upwards, towards the silvery meniscus of the surface. Air. Death. It shimmered, tantalizingly close. An end to the humiliation, the terror, the crushing boredom. A simple breach, a gasp of the wrong element… and oblivion. It seemed… clean. Final. A choice, however small, reclaimed from the relentless biology. He nosed the surface tension, feeling it resist. *Just one flick. One determined push…*
A vibration pulsed through the water. Subtle. Rhythmic. He swiveled. Eleanor was sitting on the sofa, her shoulders shaking. Not with grief this time, but with… laughter? She was watching something on her tablet. The sound, distorted though it was, held a warmth, a human connection that resonated deep within his fish-being. Beyond her, on the bookshelf, he saw a framed photo – him, Eleanor, Sarah, years ago, smiling on a beach. Sarah was holding a starfish, her young face alight with wonder.
The memory flooded back, sharp and clear. Sarah's fascination with the tide pools. Him explaining the water cycle, the adaptations of sea creatures, the delicate balance. Her eyes, wide with curiosity. "Everything's connected, right, Dad?" she'd asked.
The despair didn't vanish, but it shifted. Oblivion wasn't a choice; it was a surrender to the cage. He was here. Conscious. Aware. Trapped in a fish, yes, but *aware*. Was that the curse? Or was it, in some grotesque, cosmic way, a point of existence? A chance to witness, however silently? To *be*, even as this?
He sank back down, away from the treacherous surface. He wasn't ready for oblivion. Not yet. He was Marcus Thorne, architect, currently inhabiting a goldfish. He had a cat to outwit, a bowl to navigate, a widow's grief to silently observe. He had a daughter, somewhere, whose life continued. He needed to *see*.
Days bled into weeks. He learned the rhythms. The cat's nap times were windows of relative peace. The morning sunbeam was warm and pleasant near the surface. The taste of algae scraped off the castle wasn't entirely terrible. He even found a peculiar satisfaction in perfecting a swift, evasive turn when Mr. Whiskers made a sudden swipe at the glass. He observed Eleanor – her quiet routines, her tearful moments looking at old photos, her tentative attempts to call Sarah (he could hear the muffled ringtone, the tense silences). He became a silent student of human emotion from the most absurd vantage point.
He drifted upwards, towards the silvery meniscus of the surface. Air. Death. It shimmered, tantalizingly close. An end to the humiliation, the terror, the crushing boredom. A simple breach, a gasp of the wrong element… and oblivion. It seemed… clean. Final. A choice, however small, reclaimed from the relentless biology. He nosed the surface tension, feeling it resist. *Just one flick. One determined push…*
A vibration pulsed through the water. Subtle. Rhythmic. He swiveled. Eleanor was sitting on the sofa, her shoulders shaking. Not with grief this time, but with… laughter? She was watching something on her tablet. The sound, distorted though it was, held a warmth, a human connection that resonated deep within his fish-being. Beyond her, on the bookshelf, he saw a framed photo – him, Eleanor, Sarah, years ago, smiling on a beach. Sarah was holding a starfish, her young face alight with wonder.
The memory flooded back, sharp and clear. Sarah's fascination with the tide pools. Him explaining the water cycle, the adaptations of sea creatures, the delicate balance. Her eyes, wide with curiosity. "Everything's connected, right, Dad?" she'd asked.
The despair didn't vanish, but it shifted. Oblivion wasn't a choice; it was a surrender to the cage. He was here. Conscious. Aware. Trapped in a fish, yes, but *aware*. Was that the curse? Or was it, in some grotesque, cosmic way, a point of existence? A chance to witness, however silently? To *be*, even as this?
He sank back down, away from the treacherous surface. He wasn't ready for oblivion. Not yet. He was Marcus Thorne, architect, currently inhabiting a goldfish. He had a cat to outwit, a bowl to navigate, a widow's grief to silently observe. He had a daughter, somewhere, whose life continued. He needed to *see*.
Days bled into weeks. He learned the rhythms. The cat's nap times were windows of relative peace. The morning sunbeam was warm and pleasant near the surface. The taste of algae scraped off the castle wasn't entirely terrible. He even found a peculiar satisfaction in perfecting a swift, evasive turn when Mr. Whiskers made a sudden swipe at the glass. He observed Eleanor – her quiet routines, her tearful moments looking at old photos, her tentative attempts to call Sarah (he could hear the muffled ringtone, the tense silences). He became a silent student of human emotion from the most absurd vantage point.
He drifted upwards, towards the silvery meniscus of the surface. Air. Death. It shimmered, tantalizingly close. An end to the humiliation, the terror, the crushing boredom. A simple breach, a gasp of the wrong element… and oblivion. It seemed… clean. Final. A choice, however small, reclaimed from the relentless biology. He nosed the surface tension, feeling it resist. *Just one flick. One determined push…*
A vibration pulsed through the water. Subtle. Rhythmic. He swiveled. Eleanor was sitting on the sofa, her shoulders shaking. Not with grief this time, but with… laughter? She was watching something on her tablet. The sound, distorted though it was, held a warmth, a human connection that resonated deep within his fish-being. Beyond her, on the bookshelf, he saw a framed photo – him, Eleanor, Sarah, years ago, smiling on a beach. Sarah was holding a starfish, her young face alight with wonder.
The memory flooded back, sharp and clear. Sarah's fascination with the tide pools. Him explaining the water cycle, the adaptations of sea creatures, the delicate balance. Her eyes, wide with curiosity. "Everything's connected, right, Dad?" she'd asked.
The despair didn't vanish, but it shifted. Oblivion wasn't a choice; it was a surrender to the cage. He was here. Conscious. Aware. Trapped in a fish, yes, but *aware*. Was that the curse? Or was it, in some grotesque, cosmic way, a point of existence? A chance to witness, however silently? To *be*, even as this?
He sank back down, away from the treacherous surface. He wasn't ready for oblivion. Not yet. He was Marcus Thorne, architect, currently inhabiting a goldfish. He had a cat to outwit, a bowl to navigate, a widow's grief to silently observe. He had a daughter, somewhere, whose life continued. He needed to *see*.
Days bled into weeks. He learned the rhythms. The cat's nap times were windows of relative peace. The morning sunbeam was warm and pleasant near the surface. The taste of algae scraped off the castle wasn't entirely terrible. He even found a peculiar satisfaction in perfecting a swift, evasive turn when Mr. Whiskers made a sudden swipe at the glass. He observed Eleanor – her quiet routines, her tearful moments looking at old photos, her tentative attempts to call Sarah (he could hear the muffled ringtone, the tense silences). He became a silent student of human emotion from the most absurd vantage point.