He lost her last night. She drank the water and she was gone. Obsessed with the spots on her ceiling, he watched her as she slowly slipped away and that night he followed her as she walked to the well and slipped inside. Her pulled her out and cried and hugged her prone body.
But she was lost to him. She sat in their chair, the one they had built together, and she said nothing. She neither moved nor spake nor laughed.
As the days went by, he watched as she changed. Speaking at first, he thought she was getting better, but she wasn't. He knew, he could tell just by looking in her eyes. She was speaking and moving, but it was not her.
Finally, he came home to find her cleaning as she had done before. At first ecstatic, his hopes were dashed like a shipwreck when he looked into her eyes and found them the same as before. She would never be like she was.
So that night, he brought up water from the well and poured it in a glass. He sat in front of his wife and asked if she remembered drinking the water. "Yes, my love," she said. "It was so fresh and clear. You must try it."
She was not his wife, he knew. But she must be somewhere, somewhere the well water must have taken her. So he drank the glass of water and waited.