In a small house near the river, a boy presses his forehead to the cold glass of his window. The night is quiet except for the faint rush of water, but his eyes are fixed, unblinking, on the dark surface. He doesn't move, doesn't even seem to hear the floor creak behind him.
"Why are you still up?" his mother's voice snaps, sharp with fatigue and frustration. "You need to sleep now—we have a lot to do in the morning."
The boy doesn't answer.
Her irritation turns into a frown. "Did you hear me?"
She walks closer, ready to scold him again, but as she follows his gaze her breath catches. From the river's black mirror, shapes begin to rise—first just ripples, then slick backs, then glistening claws. One. Three. A dozen. More.
Her voice trembles. "Gods…"
The boy still doesn't move, his small hands gripping the windowsill.
In an instant, she grabs him, tearing him away from the glass. "No looking—hold on to me!"
