The Quarry
The quarry lake was forty feet deep and the colour of strong tea. Local children said it had no bottom. Leela knew it had one, because six years ago she had stood on the ledge at dusk and dropped her brother’s watch into it, still ticking.
She had told no one. Not her parents, who believed the watch was lost on a bus. Not her husband. A secret kept long enough becomes a room in the house, one you stop opening but never stop knowing about.
In August, with the water low and clear, she came back alone. She took a breath and went down through the cold layers where the light thinned to green and then to nothing, and put her hand into the silt as if into a mouth.
It was there. Of course it was. The glass was clouded and the strap was gone. It had stopped, long ago, at ten past four.
She came up slowly, the way you must, giving the water time to let her go. On the ledge she sat in the sun with the watch in her palm and, for the first time in six years, said her brother’s name aloud to the empty rock. The rock, which had kept it, let it go.
Invented. No real person is described, and the story is not a portrait of anyone born under this sign.