The Vistula River glistered under the tableware kiss of the moon, its current rumbling ancient secrets through the doormats. Janek, a youthful fisher with calloused hands and quiet eyes, cast his net into the water from his weathered boat, humming a lullaby his mama formerly sang. The wind was still, and the swash surprisingly calm. 

 It had been weeks since the fish faded from this stretch of swash. Some criticized bad luck. Others murmured about old legends — of a naiad who formerly sang beneath the waters of Warsaw, soliciting men with her voice and spirit. Janek had heard the tales, of course. Children spoke of her beauty and her shimmering tail, the way her song could bring peace — or ruin.