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.

There were further homes in the vill as times went on and old bones

 began to lean. Siblings grew high, the senior grew more relaxed and life went along calmly. 

 The banyan tree was the only thing still there. Now, it was more emotional and confirmed than ever, its branches stretching out further, while cranes still flew by and out, albeit a many had faded with age. Aarav and Meera, who had grown up, came to visit one day with their youthful son. “ It was then that we learned to feel, ” she said, reaching out to put her hand in her son’s.

Nandipur vill was quiet and its familiar winds and subtle fields joined to sing lullabies by the old banyan tree standing there. Its branches twisted around the soil as if old fritters and its rustling leaves told tales from the history. At the tree, children escaped the sun, suckers etched symbols and old family members sat under it to sputter.Indeed so, the tree was most devoted to Aarav. 

On the ocean bottom, where little light from the swells could reach, the ocean area of Aqualora sounded retired and mysterious. The coral palaces were decorated in tones of amethyst and wanton. In these watery halls, numerous ocean brutes moved, but atop the ocean lived the Sea King, who loved his two daughters dearly.