Jules worked at the pool at dawn, before the swim team and the retirees. He was a lifeguard for bodies and, unofficially, for dreams that sank. The pool was old, tiled in fading blue mosaics. Swimmers whispered that the deep end held echoes. Jules heard them when he closed his eyes: muffled cries of ambitions left to drown. He did not tell the manager. Who would believe a guard who dove for dreams?
The first time he pulled one up, he was scrubbing tiles when he felt something brush his ankle. He plunged his hand and grasped a slippery thought shaped like a sketchbook. It trembled. He surfaced, gasping, holding what looked like a wet piece of fog. As he dried it with his towel, it clarified: a dream of becoming an architect, abandoned years ago by a regular named Mr. Lee, who now swam laps with robotic precision. The dream wriggled, wanting air.
Jules panicked, then did the only thing he could think of: he approached Mr. Lee after his swim. “Do you… ever think about design?” Mr. Lee blinked. “Once,” he said. Jules handed him the dream. It dissolved into Lee’s chest. Lee stood still, then smiled, small. “I have an old drafting table,” he murmured. He left the pool early that day. Weeks later, he brought Jules a set of blueprints for a birdhouse. “First thing I’ve designed in decades,” he said, eyes shining.
Wordless, the pool began surrendering more dreams. Jules found them tangled in lane lines: a novel’s first chapter, a passport, a pair of ballet shoes. He returned them quietly, timing his conversations between sets. Some swimmers embraced them, others recoiled. One woman refused, terrified of the weight. Jules learned to ask consent. He kept a small net for those who wanted to release dreams permanently, letting them drift down a drain that led who-knows-where.
Not all dreams belonged to current swimmers. Some felt ancient. He found a tarnished badge labeled “Detective,” belonging perhaps to a janitor who never pursued police work. He could not find the owner. He kept it in his locker, humming. Dreams left unclaimed buzzed, restless. He started leaving them on a lost-and-found shelf near the towels, labeled “Take if yours.” Some disappeared. Some grew dim. He worried about lost dreams clogging filters.
One morning, he dove to vacuum the deep end and found a cluster of dreams stuck in a drain, swirling. They were younger—social media influencer aspirations, a half-planned road trip, a pottery class. He realized something: the pool was absorbing not just long-buried dreams but fresh ones dropped daily. People swam to forget for an hour, and in their laps, loosened their grip on desire. The water held them until someone listened.
Jules could not do it alone. He confided in Maria, the swim coach. She scoffed until a dream slapped her arm: a whistle labeled “Olympic.” She gasped. She had wanted to compete once. Tears fell. She believed. Together, they trained other staff to spot and handle dreams: approach gently, offer, never force. The pool became a quiet sanctuary for second chances.
Management caught wind. The regional supervisor visited, baffled by the lost-and-found shelf filled with intangible things. He threatened to shut it down. Then he found his own dream there: a guitar pick from his teenage band. He pocketed it, stunned. He approved the shelf, no questions asked.
Years later, Jules left the pool to study counseling. He felt called to deeper waters. The pool kept its reputation. People came not just to swim but to see what they might fish out. Some left lighter, some heavier with reclaimed ambition. Jules visited occasionally, sitting in the bleachers, watching dreams surface like bubbles. He was proud of saving bodies, but prouder of saving plans, art, love from chlorinated oblivion. He learned that dreams don’t drown easily; they wait to be noticed, and sometimes all they need is a lifeguard who knows how to dive for more than flesh.