The aquarium was the last thing he saw before sleep.

Six butterfly koi moved like slow thoughts through the water, their pale fins folding and unfolding as if rehearsed. Angelfish drifted between them, thin and solemn, while the catfish clung to the gravel at the bottom, mouths opening and closing, working at nothing. The filter hummed. The bubbler whispered. The soft blue light filled the bedroom with a calm that felt earned.

It helped him sleep.
That was the point of it.

The first sound came sometime after midnight.

Drip.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just enough to be wrong.

He opened his eyes and listened. The aquarium sat against the far wall, glass thick as a storefront window. No water on the floor. No shimmer where it shouldn’t be.

Drip.

He swung his legs out of bed and crossed the room. The fish continued their slow circuits, unbothered. The waterline was steady. The cabinet beneath the tank was dry.

He stood there longer than necessary, waiting for something else to happen.

Nothing did.

Back in bed, he told himself pipes made noise. Houses settled. Sleep came again.

The second time, it wasn’t a drip.

It was a bang—a violent, wet concussion, like a bathtub dumped from shoulder height.

He sat straight up, heart slamming. The sound had been unmistakable. If the tank had cracked, the room would already be flooding.

He turned on the light.

Nothing.

The floor was dry. The walls were dry. The tank stood whole and patient, water unmoved. The fish swam lazily through the blue glow.

He frowned.

That’s when he noticed the koi.

They were larger. Not dramatically—just enough that he doubted himself. Fish grew, after all. He hadn’t measured them. He hadn’t taken pictures.

Still, they seemed closer to the glass than before. Watching.

A faint pressure settled behind his eyes. He rubbed his temples until it passed.

The third time, the sound shook the room.

It was everything—a crash, a roar, the imagined violence of tons of water tearing free.

He woke screaming.

The light was already on.

He stood—or thought he did—and the room felt wrong. Too close. Too distorted. Sound came muffled now, as if wrapped in cloth.

Then the water touched him.

Cool. Heavy. Everywhere.

Panic flared, sharp and immediate, but it faded strangely fast. His limbs moved without urgency. He didn’t need to breathe the way he remembered needing to breathe.

He turned.

Glass surrounded him.

Gravel beneath. Plants waving gently in a current he felt but could not name. Angelfish passed, serene and indifferent. Catfish worked the bottom, ancient and unhurried.

Six butterfly koi circled him.

One of them—larger than the rest—met his gaze.

A thought surfaced. This is wrong.

It drifted away before he could hold it.

The water was soothing. The motion was easy. The filter hummed. The bubbler whispered.

Beyond the glass, the room was quiet. Empty.

The bed sat rumpled, the covers tossed aside.

He drifted past it, then forgot why it mattered.

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Cliff Potts will always entertain serious comments from Hollywood scriptwriters about adapting one of his stories.