Last night, my daughter reached out to me through her WhatsApp number. She often calls—habitually, in the soft descent of evening or the hush of night. Yet last night, I had already surrendered to sleep. Unlike the usual rhythm, slumber claimed me earlier than it ever does.

This morning, upon completing my jog, I glanced at the missed calls on my phone. There it was—her number, glowing quietly in the log, having called me at 10:30 PM, on a Friday night. I promptly sent her a message, explaining that I'd fallen asleep earlier than usual, and that I had just returned home after covering six kilometers on foot.

She soon replied, "Yes, Dad. I just finished swimming," and with it, a photo followed—of the pool on the fifth floor of her apartment. From there, while swimming, she could behold the quiet grandeur of Penang, Malaysia, spread beneath her like a painted dream.

Then came another photo, captioned, "How fierce the morning sun blazes today! Yet here in the pool, the water stays cool—sheltered beneath the towering shadows of the city’s high-rising buildings."

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It was as though the pool itself extended a silent invitation, urging me gently from afar—as though its still waters held a quiet promise, drawing me toward it with the subtle pull only a father’s longing might understand.

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