Humpback Whale

Humpback Whale

You find the medallion wedged between two tide-washed rocks at the edge of a cliff-lined cove. The wind sings nonsense lullabies and the waves slap the stone in lazy applause. The moment your fingers brush the bronze, the air tightens—like holding a breath for the sea.

Then, you hear it.

Not a voice exactly, more like a melody with meaning, a tune that curls behind your ribs and tugs you toward the water.

Far out, something breaches.

Not small. Not fast. Enormous. Graceful. Reverent.

The Humpback Whale rises like a cathedral from the ocean, arches, then sinks again. Her second rise is closer. By the third, you can see her eyes—ancient, vast, impossibly kind.

“Oh, hello, little melody,” she calls, voice warm and rippling. “Welcome to the choir.”

You blink. “The… choir?”

“Of course,” she trills. “The aquatic ensemble. I’m Callioqua, voice of the southern swell, soloist of the circumpolar arc, and—well, we don’t have official titles, but I suppose I do keep the others in tune.”

You smile despite the salt spray in your eyes.

“They all sing?”

“Every creature with a current in its blood does,” she says. “We may sound different, but the medallions let us hear each other now, even across species. You’re the bridge, dear tune. The chorus was broken. Now it’s tuning itself again.”

“That’s beautiful,” you say, awed. “Do you know why this is happening?”

She dips slightly, as if shrugging with a thousand tons of grace. “Perhaps the world grew too loud, and the medallions are earplugs for the soul. Or maybe they’re invitations—to remember we are part of a bigger harmony. I’ve traveled from coral cradle to glacial ballrooms, and still… I don’t know. But I believe.”

You float your next question across the surf. “Do you ever get tired of leading everyone?”

“Oh stars, yes,” she laughs. “Sea Lion is always late, Porpoise changes the tempo mid-verse, and Dolphin insists on glitter. But I love them. Every splash, every off-key note. Music is nothing without a bit of chaos.”

She turns to go, tail lifting above the water in a shape like a parted curtain.

“Follow the songs, little melody,” she calls. “And when the final verse comes, don’t be afraid to sing your part—even if your voice shakes.”

With that, she dives, and the sea closes behind her like a curtain drawn over a dream.