Nessie glided beneath the murky water, her body creating no wake, no sound, no trace. She wanted to disappear completely when she moved—to pass through water like a whisper. The tourists at her old loch had ruined everything with their boats and cameras, so she'd come here to the Cryptidia swamps to practice in peace. Here, the water still spoke its own language. She surfaced near a twisted cypress root and listened. The frogs called to each other. Bubbles rose from the muddy bottom. A dragonfly's wings hummed past her snout. These sounds belonged here. They didn't drown out the water's voice like the engines had. She dove again and pushed toward the open lake ahead, where she could test herself in deeper water. A small wooden boat floated in the center of the lake, unmoving. Nessie circled beneath it, measuring the distance with her senses. She could hear every ripple her body made, every shift in pressure. Too much. She needed to move without disturbing a single drop. She slowed her breathing and let her body go still. Then she glided forward, keeping her movements smooth and controlled. The boat rocked slightly as she passed underneath. She stopped. That was the problem—even her best efforts still left traces. She would stay here and practice until the boat sat perfectly still while she swam beneath it. Only then would she be truly invisible in the water.

Nessie needed to understand her own body first. She floated in shallow water near the bank and focused on her tail. Each small movement sent ripples across the surface. She tucked her flippers tight against her sides and tried again. Better, but not enough. She counted her heartbeats and matched her breathing to them—slow, steady, controlled. Then she moved just her tail, one tiny motion at a time. The water barely stirred. She practiced this for hours until her muscles ached, learning which movements made noise and which ones didn't. By sunset, she could flex her tail without breaking the surface. It was a start. The next morning, she discovered a small structure built at the water's edge. Large windows stretched across its front, looking down into the deeper water. She approached it slowly, curious. Through the glass, she could watch creatures moving beneath the surface—fish darting between plants, turtles gliding past, insects skating on top. Nessie settled in front of the windows and observed. A bass swam by without creating a single ripple. She watched how its fins moved, how its body stayed level. A heron's reflection appeared above, then its beak struck down and pulled back up with barely a splash. She pressed closer to the glass. Each creature had its own way of moving through water. She studied them until the light faded, memorizing every detail. Tomorrow she would try what she had learned.