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“We don’t need names to remember who we are. But you may give me one.”

“Then—how about ‘Little Fish’?”

“A weak name, wholly unimaginative,” it complains, despite its earlier indifference.

As a breeze stirs around us, I remember a myth I heard. “There is an old folktale: that the carp who could swim up an enchanted waterfall would be transformed into a dragon, to soar into the skies.”

“A worthy endeavor,” it says approvingly.

“Then I’ll call you ‘Little Dragon,’” I suggest. “Because I hope you will fly in the heavens one day.”

“Flatterer.” Yet its fins ripple in seeming pleasure. “I’m far from a dragon, but one can always aspire.”

We share a smile. “How did you know about my ring? What did you mean when you said I wasn’t alone?” I ask.

“Someone sent me to you. She gave you the ring you wear.”

“Who?” It doesn’t feel real that all this while, someone was looking out for me. The carp must be mistaken… though I don’t want it to be.

“Your mother.”

A deep joy flares in my heart, pierced through with sorrow—because she’s not here, because I can’t remember anything of her. “Is she… alive?”

“She was very ill, close to death, when I was summoned years ago,” the carp says heavily. “I was tasked with delivering the rest of her gift to you.”

It hurts, even though I’ve already resigned myself to this loss. I breathe deeply to steady myself. Little Dragon flicks its tail, shimmering flecks drifting across the pond like dandelion seeds. The earth around my feet quivers, a tiny shoot springing from the soil. Leaves sprout along the twisted stalk, a bud forming that unfurls into a luminous six-petaled flower the color of pearls, a single thorn glinting from its side.

Fear rakes my insides. Magic is dangerous; if I’m discovered here, with the carp, I could be imprisoned or worse. I should run, to never return. But I don’t. Despite my fear, I want to know.

“Prick your finger on the thorn.”

It’s like time has stilled, the carp’s voice taking on a new resonance. For some reason I trust it. My heart races as I shift closer—just a moment’s hesitation—then I’m pressing my finger against the thorn. It stings, blood beading on my fingertip, sliding down the stalk. The plant shudders, sheathed in dazzling radiance. Its solitary blossom falls into my palm, the stem twisting into a thin circlet, coiled around the flower in the middle.

“What is this?” I ask in wonder.

“It belongs to you. To your ring.”

“Don’t speak in riddles.” I shake my head. “My ring is just ordinary wood, ‘worthless’ as my step-aunt said.”

“Is it worthless to you?”

“No!” I reply vehemently. “But this can’t be real.”

“Stop looking for reasons not to believe what I’m telling you,” the carp says somberly. “You know whether this is real or not.”

Fighting a burst of doubt, I pick up the circlet of stem and flower. It pulses in my grip, my ring tingling in the same rhythm, like they are one and the same. Nothing makes sense, yet it feels right. A whisper seems to glide through the air, a name rustling through my mind like an echo, a shadow of memory: Yining.

My mother’s voice. I don’t recall her face, but I remember now the way she used to utter my name… like it was the most beautiful sound in the world. I hold the circlet over my finger, a powerful impulse compelling me to push it down—

“Wait.” The carp’s voice rings out. “This is not just a flower; this is your heritage—a great gift and responsibility that you will bear the rest of your life.”

My hand stills; I’m not one for burdens or unseen tethers. “What do you mean?”

“Once you accept the flower, you will be bound to it—you can never relinquish it. It becomes as vital as your limbs, as the blood that flows in your veins.”

I stare blankly at the delicate twist of stalk, my hand braced to fling it away, despite the urge to claim it. “What if I lose it? What if it’s stolen or taken from me?”

“You will die.” The carp’s tone is gentle, yet the words stab like knives.