A Ripple in the Ink

The quiet night held its breath. I felt a soft flutter through my delicate fins, as if cool water had brushed my paper surface. With a gentle sway, I lifted my tail slightly off the white plane, watching faint starry gleams drift along my curves. Drifting an inch forward into the quiet air, my fin brushed the smooth, cool side of the black marker lying just beside the sheet. It rested silently against the desk, and I settled back into our graceful circle, singing a soft, shimmering hum into the still air.