My husband and I have always been drawn to the quiet presence of water.
Each evening, once the day’s noise dissolved, we would spend about an hour in our backyard pool, speaking in low voices and letting the slow movement of the water ease our minds. It was never about fitness or indulgence—it was simply our shared ritual, a gentle way to reconnect. When a new family moved in next door, we exchanged friendly waves and thought nothing more of it. Not long after, the father came over and asked—politely but firmly—that we stop using the pool at night. He offered little explanation, only saying it caused difficulties for his family. Confused, and feeling our routine was harmless, we decided not to change anything and continued as usual.

For some time, there were no obvious consequences.

Then one evening, as we were toweling off by the pool, I sensed movement near the fence. Their son, perhaps twelve years old, stood silently on the other side, pressing a piece of paper between the wooden slats. He didn’t call out or gesture—he simply waited until I noticed him. When I stepped closer and read the note, my chest tightened. Written in careful but uneven letters, it explained that his younger sister had been sick for a long time and found peace in listening to water sounds at night. The pool reminded her of a therapy room at the hospital where she once felt safe and calm. Lately, though, those same sounds had become too intense for her, especially late in the evening.