By Stefan Sofiski

Ivan glided over his childhood home; he knew it was only about a hundred meters south from the church. He took a deep breath and dove. The water grew darker and colder the deeper he went. Three meters, five, seven…Blind, his chest screaming, he pushed out a stifled grunt of black bubbles which raced up to the surface.

Instinct took over. He twisted and kicked up, lungs imploding, head flickering between need for air and longing for memories.

On the surface, painful air filled him. Ivan clenched his fists and rubbed his wetted eyes, like a child wiping tears. He floated on his back, letting the sun warm him up. His muscles relaxed.

Ivan had started swimming in Progress Reservoir three years ago. A summer drought had caused the water level to drop, revealing the remnants of a forgotten church tower that had been submerged for over forty years. Shots of it became perfect backgrounds for global warming headlines in news, feeds, and reels.

Pilgrims came. They were old residents of the village which  had to be flooded to make way for a reservoir. To supply clean water for the million citizens in the city over the ridge. To make way for Progress.

They were of all ages. Old, who had left as middle-aged. Middle-aged, who left as kids. Young, who had never seen it. Their dinghies circled around the corroded church bell rising only about a meter above the water surface, still hanging off washed down bricks with missing mortar. The pilgrims lit lanterns and let them float on the peaceful water over the forgotten village. When the poignant ceremony was over, and pictures had been taken, they returned to their apartments and took showers, washed their cars, and flushed their toilets with the water that now filled one-time homes and covered the buried bones of their ancestors in their one-time cemetery.

Only Ivan kept coming back. Swam in the reservoir. Dove into its cool waters. If only his fingers could graze a roof tile, he would go back to the streets smelling like cow dung, where he traded marbles and climbed trees to pick sour apples.

Each time he came back, his lungs held longer. His muscles grew stronger, younger. The water level continued dropping. His house was much lower than the church tower, deeper in the reservoir. But one day his stretched hand would reach that roof, touch the home he’d been taken away from.

Not today. Today, Ivan circled around the church tower, laid a hand on the corroded bell for a second, and started paddling to shore.