Forms and figures move below the rippling surface. The air is hushed and windless, but the waters tremble still, reflecting a fractured inversion of the lilac sky. Hands reach out of the depths to catch the dying light on glistening fingers, plucking wildflowers from the fringes of the lake to weave into crowns. Lone travelers have sought to trade their minds for a single kiss, but such a wish has never been granted; the naiads do not exist to tempt the eyes of mortals. But to spare the occasional child who drops a ball, or who wanders too far from a parent’s lap, the naiads have ceased their singing, at least while sunlight reigns. But evening is falling, and the children have been tucked into bed; if you listen, you can hear them sing as the moon begins to rise over the rippling waters.


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