Willa the Little Whale and the Song of the Sea
Far out in the wide, deep ocean, where the water turns from blue to velvet dark, swam a little whale named Willa.
All around her the sea stretched on and on, further than she could ever see. The other whales of her pod had drifted off to rest, and for a moment, floating alone in all that vastness, Willa felt very small.
"It's so big out here," she whispered into the water. "And so dark. And I'm all alone."
But then, from somewhere deep and far away, a sound came rolling through the sea. A long, low, gentle note — and then another — soft as a lullaby, warm as a hug. It was her mother's song, travelling miles and miles through the water to reach her.
Willa went very still, and listened. And she heard that she was not alone at all. She heard her mother's song wrapping around her. She heard the whole ocean humming — the tides turning slow, the currents swaying, a distant pod singing back through the dark.
The sea was not empty. It was full of song, and all of it was gentle, and all of it was near.
Willa sang a small note back — a soft little bubble of a song — and across the miles her mother's voice answered, low and loving: I'm here. I'm here. Rest now.
Held in the great warm song of the sea, Willa didn't feel small anymore. She felt cradled by something vast and kind, rocked by the slow, deep swells.
She let her flippers go loose. She let herself drift and sway with the tide, the ocean singing its low lullaby all around her.
"Goodnight, sea," she hummed. "Goodnight, Mama."
And the little whale, rocked and sung to by the whole wide ocean, closed her eyes and drifted softly down into her dreams.