At 9:10, after the pool had emptied, Sello heard a knock from the deep end.
He stopped with the bucket in his hand. The building gave him a hundred sounds after closing: pipes contracting, the pump changing gear, the loose latch on the staff door. This one came twice, evenly spaced, then once more after a pause.
He checked the lane ropes. Each float touched its neighbour, a small plastic agreement. He checked the windows, the drain covers, the metal ladder. Nothing moved except the water settling against the tiles.
At 9:16, the knock came again, now from the shallow end.
Sello switched off the ventilation fan. Without its low rush, the room seemed larger. He waited. A drop fell from the shower rail and struck the pool edge. Then another.
He walked the length of the pool to the rail. The tiles were dry beneath it, except for a narrow dark mark where water had run down the wall. He pressed a thumb to the joint. Cold metal, no movement. When he stepped back, a sound came from behind him: a quick tap, followed by the small wavering ring of a ladder rung.
Sello turned. The ladder stood still. He looked at the cleaning sheet, then at the long room with its blue lane ropes drawn slack across the water. He had learned to distinguish a loose fixture from a pipe settling, but only after hearing the same thing several times. A single noise was usually a guess wearing a uniform.
He switched the ventilation fan back on. Its steady rush flattened the room again. The knock did not return while he finished the bins. At the staff door, he paused with the key in his hand, listening without turning off the lights. A drop struck somewhere behind him. He wrote down that time too.
He wrote “inspect shower rail and ladder” on the cleaning sheet. The next morning he would ask maintenance to check both. For now, he left the fan on and heard the water find its small, repeated answer.
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