There’s something about a small discovery that feels like holding a secret the world hasn’t noticed yet.
He didn’t mean to catch them.
The boy had gone out with his fishing pole, the line wobbling more from curiosity than skill. The pond sat quiet, like it was keeping its own thoughts. He dipped the net instead of the hook—just to see what might be there—and lifted it slowly, water slipping through like time.
At first, he thought they were just shadows.
Little commas flicking through the net.
Tadpoles.
He crouched closer, eyes narrowing. “Huh… you’re not fish.”
But they moved like they were thinking about becoming something.
That was enough.
He carried them home in an old bucket, water sloshing against his knees with each step. His mother raised an eyebrow when he walked in.
“What did you bring this time?”
“Fish,” he said, already halfway to his room.
They went into his ten-gallon tank, the one that had once held bright plastic castles and a lonely goldfish long gone. Now it held pond water, bits of grass, and a quiet kind of mystery.
At night, he pressed his face to the glass.
They swam differently than anything he’d seen before—like they were remembering how to move, not just doing it.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Something shifted.
Tiny legs appeared first, almost like the tank was growing ideas instead of creatures. The boy blinked hard the first time he saw them.
“Wait… you weren’t like that yesterday.”
The tails got shorter. The bodies rounder. They didn’t just swim anymore—they hovered, paused, changed direction like they were learning a new language.
One morning, he leaned close and grinned.
“You’re not fish at all.”
He tapped the glass gently.
“You’re frog fish.”
The name stuck. It felt right in that way kids understand things before the world corrects them.
The frog fish began to climb.
Not much at first—just resting on the smooth stones he’d dropped in. Then higher. Then stiller. They’d sit half in water, half out, like they couldn’t decide which world they belonged to.
He watched them longer now.
Less like he owned them. More like he was witnessing something.
One evening, he noticed one missing.
He searched the tank, the floor, the corners.
Nothing.
The next morning, another was gone.
No splashes. No signs. Just… absence.
At first, it bothered him. He sat on his bed, staring at the tank like it had betrayed him.
“Where’d you go?”
But then he looked out the window.
The same pond. The same quiet.
And something clicked into place—not loudly, not like a lesson. Just a soft understanding settling in.
They were never really his.
They were just passing through.
By the end of the week, the tank was still again.
Empty, except for water and the memory of movement.
He didn’t rush to refill it.
Instead, he went back to the pond, sat at the edge, and watched.
This time, he didn’t bring the net.
Just his eyes.
Just his patience.
And somewhere near the surface, something small flicked its tail—still becoming.
The End
With love & light,
Crystal Amon
Princess Crystal Says
Copyright 2026
📧 princesscrystalsays@gmail.com
Princess Crystal Says 
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