The echo of water drips in the distance. Murky light filters down through layers of vines and mist, dappling the marshy floor in shifting golds and greens. You push through a curtain of moss hanging over a half-collapsed pipe, and that’s when you see them.

A blur of blue and pink slams into the water nearby with a splash that could’ve been intentional… or a total accident. Hard to say. Before you can react, a sleek, elongated form rockets past your feet, narrowly avoiding collision, then does a full somersault mid-swim and slaps into a rock with a faint, musical bonk.

They lay there for a second. Still. Face down.

They lift their head, blink once, twice—then make direct eye contact with you.

Rivulet. You're pretty sure it’s her. Frilled gills fluttering, water dripping off their long ears, tail curling into a question mark behind them. Her webbed fingers wave enthusiastically—maybe at you, maybe at a passing batfly. Hard to tell.

She tilts her head. Stares. Blinks one eye. The other lags half a second behind.