At the mouth of the river, where freshwater hesitated before surrendering to salt, lay a vast pond born not of nature but of human ambition. It was engineered—measured, dredged, compacted, and sealed with intention. To human eyes, it was entertainment.

To human eyes, it was entertainment.
To investors, it was potential.
To officials, it was development.
To the fish, it was a border.

By day, the pond shimmered beneath a fractured sky. Towers of glass rose like artificial cliffs, their mirrored skins scattering sunlight back into the water, confusing even the most seasoned migratory instincts. Condominiums stood with pride, as if they had grown from coral rather than concrete. Balconies hovered over the estuary like spectators awaiting a performance.
But the pond did not perform. It endured.

At high tide, the sea entered without knocking. It filled channels, pressed against embankments, and carried travellers from the deep. Groupers arrived like armoured philosophers. rabbitfish darted nervously between currents. Tangy fish, crabs clung stubbornly to whatever surface felt stable. Larvae drifted in invisible clouds, unaware that their destiny was already being negotiated by gravity and cement.

When the tide receded, only the swift escaped.
Many did not.

They remained behind, circling in confusion within walls they had never chosen.
Above, humans laughed as they cast their lines.
Below, the pond began collecting stories.