With hunched, frail shoulders the crone leaned against her sand-smooth staff. Her gnarled hand trembled holding a wax sealed bottle. Inside, a parchment displayed swirls of an unknown language.
It’s fell soundlessly onto the rocks. There it danced with the tide like a lost jewel beneath the hidden sun’s demise.
“Please,” she croaked echoless upon the breezeless eve. “Father, let me come home for this land is not for me.”
A tail of rainbow scales splashed a wave–then disappeared.
The bottle was stolen.
She waited and prayed for the storms to align and for her antiquated land legs’ last dawn.