But he could not bring himself to swim.
Every time he looked toward the shallow shelf, he remembered his wife sitting there with their daughter.
Every time sunlight illuminated the little blue star, he remembered her choosing the tiles.
And every evening, when the house became quiet, he could almost hear her voice calling from the patio.
Their daughter missed swimming too.
For weeks, she refused to go near the water.
Then, one Sunday afternoon, she appeared beside her father while he was checking the pump.
She wore her old blue swimsuit.
Her hair was tied back.
In one hand, she carried a small pair of swimming goggles.
He looked up.
"Hey, sweetheart."
She stood beside him.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then whispered, "Can we swim?"
His chest tightened.
He looked toward the pool.
The water was still.
The little mosaic star shimmered beneath the surface.
He swallowed.
"Of course."
His daughter looked uncertain.
"Without Mommy?"
For a moment, he could not speak.
Then he knelt.
He gently took her hands.
"Mommy wanted us to keep swimming."
The little girl looked toward the water.
Then back at him.
"Will you stay with me?"
He nodded.
"Every minute."
She smiled faintly.
They entered together.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His daughter held his arm.
He guided her into the shallow water.
Then they floated.
Not for long.
Just a few minutes.
But when they climbed out, she smiled for the first time that day.
Then she looked toward the blue star.
"Mommy would like that."
The engineer felt tears fill his eyes.
He nodded.
"Yes."
His daughter reached for his hand.
"Can we do it again tomorrow?"
He smiled.
"I'd like that."
From then on, the pool became part of their routine.
Not a replacement for his wife.
Nothing could replace her.